


Degrees

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: BAMF Betty, F/M, Prompt Fill, Serpent Prince, bughead - Freeform, southside high
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 19:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12778257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: Jughead wants to find out more about the mysterious and intriguing new student at Southside High.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KingColeQueenLili](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingColeQueenLili/gifts).



> Please check out [the lovely cover image](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16079531) by [redcirce.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcirce/pseuds/redcirce)  

“It’s the temperature at which paper burns,” Jughead says in answer to Mr. Phillips’s question. He’s already read Fahrenheit 451 a few times, although he prefers Bradbury’s short stories. This is his wheelhouse, even if it’s not the Serpent Way to do well in English. Or in any class, for that matter.

There’s a slight cough next to him. Betty, the new student at Southside High, raises her hand and adds, “That’s not quite true. Fahrenheit 451 is the temperature at which paper _spontaneously_ combusts, although scientists have proven there’s a variance.” She stops, perhaps realizing all the students’ heads have swiveled to watch her. “You know, depending on the type of paper? Cardboard would be very different from a tissue, of course.”

“Of course,” Toni mutters under her breath.

Jughead ignores this and turns to face the new girl. Betty Cooper, he reflects, already famous for being completely different from the rest of the Southside High population. She wears pastel sweaters and ponytails instead of ripped denim and leather. “Does it really matter? “ he says.

“Well, it depends on how you look at the novel.” Betty turns in her seat to face him, eyes filled with sincere interest. “If you consider the background, I mean. Bradbury was terrified of censure in the political climate at the time. He saw withholding books as a sign that society itself could combust, just like paper at Fahrenheit 451.”

“Hold my lighter under the book for long enough, and it’ll combust,” Sweet Pea says. “Want me to demonstrate, New Girl?”

Before Mr. Phillips can intervene, the school alarm rings. It’s the fifth one that week, probably from pushers who have snuck through the unchained doors from the street. Jughead waits to hear if the principal will come on the loudspeaker with the usual disclaimer “Sit down, everyone. Stay in class. Just a mistake, and if I catch the mental midgets responsible they’ll have Saturday detention for a month.”

Silence. Jughead jerks his head at the door, a signal that Sweet Pea and Tall Boy can move their asses outside. Toni, bless her independent little heart, is already heading to the hallway.

He’s about to catch up with her so they can sneak a smoke together during this unforeseen break, when one of the Ghoulies crowds behind Betty. “Hello, sweet thing. How about we bounce to my place,” the guy’s saying. Malachai, that’s his name, although he should be called Brainless or Dickless. Betty leans away from him, face twisted in distaste, but of course he doesn't stop his line of bullshit. “If we leave now no one will know and we can just take our time all day. Know what I mean?”

The redhot rage that fills Jughead’s chest surprises him. Before he knows it he rushes up in Malachai’s face, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Back off,” Jughead snarls. “Keep your line of bullshit for baggage handlers at the next roofie convention.”

Malachai curses and starts to protest, but Jughead has already cupped Betty’s elbow and guided her to an exit only the Serpents use. “I’ll punch that jackass if he talks to you again,” he says through his teeth.

To his surprise, Betty throws back her head and laughs. “Baggage handlers!”

“You like that?” Jughead can’t help grinning back. She has a nice smile, wide and sincere, and he realizes she’s pretty behind that baby-blue bandbox exterior. Her laugh comes from the gut, making him want to provoke it again.

But already she’s sobered, stepping out of reach. “Thank you for stepping in. I can take care of myself, though.” It’s as if she’s amused by his concern, and Jughead wants to shake her. Doesn’t she understand how dangerous Southside can be?

They’ve reached the tiny back patio where Jughead hangs out with Toni and Sweet Pea after lunch or after school if there’s nowhere else to go. He punches the heavy door to hold it for Betty, steps through, and frowns at the sun. “You really can’t, though. Take care of yourself, I mean. Malachai’s a Ghoulie, and those guys will stop at nothing. That ‘I’m an independent woman who don’t need no man’ doesn’t fly around those assholes.”

“What are you two talking about?” Toni demands and stabs her cigarette in Betty’s direction. “Also, why is she here in Serpent territory?”

Jughead ignores her. “Why did you transfer to Southside?” he asks Betty. “You should go to some fancy prep academy or be home-schooled…”

He stops. Betty’s pale skin whitens so quickly he moves forward, afraid she’s going to faint. “No. Not home-schooled. No.” She flicks a glance at Toni and nods at the girl. “I didn’t mean to impose. Probably there are other places to wait for the all-clear, so I’ll head out.”

Her skirt swirls like a flower as Betty heads up the crumbling cement steps. He’s about to follow her, but Sweet Pea stops him with the flat of one hand. “Let her go. Serpents don’t get involved with chicks like that.”

#

Jughead can’t get the incident out of his mind. Through lunch, afternoon classes, and gym, he can’t stop thinking about Betty and the way she reacted to his home-school barb. There’s a mystery surrounding her, and Jughead Jones can never resist a puzzle.

He’s on the bleachers, hiding in his usual spot to write a few pages and be alone while avoiding Dodgeball at the same time. It’s one moment of the day when he doesn’t have to be a Serpent, crown prince of the biker gang, or toughest kid in the school. He can just be himself.

For once the words flow like divine dictation. His chapter is shaping itself around a mysterious blond who needs help in a new place she doesn’t understand. The main character steps in ready to show her the pitfalls of the concrete jungle, a jailed enclosure no one escapes. They’re going to form a bond in the next few sections, maybe find out they have more in common than either of them thought at first.

A burst of laughter shakes him out of his zone, and he looks at the gym floor. Betty has just caught a would-be hit and, as Jughead watches, she slings it back into the opposing team. Her ball catches Sweet Pea in his stomach, making him emit a loud ‘Oof’.

Jughead’s not the only one who’s impressed. Toni reaches out and slugs Betty on her arm, a gesture that’s almost friendly. “Damn,” Toni declares. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Cooper.”

Betty grins and plant her feet on the gym floor, her calves flexing as though she’s braced against an onslaught. She shouts at Sweet Pea to get his act together and return the ball, they’re not getting any younger, she wants to show him how the game’s played.

Raising one eyebrow, Jughead reads back what he just wrote. With a long sigh, he highlights the new chapter and hits Delete. Obviously he’s gotten the girl’s character all wrong.

She’s strong and intelligent, not a victim in need of Prince Charming.

#

At the final bell Southside clears out in record time. Most students don’t bother to visit their lockers – a misnomer if there ever was one, since most of them don’t actually lock – and instead run to the usual corner for drugs, for hook-ups, for more drugs.

Betty stands alone in the hallway, back straight as she seems to consider the contents of her own locker. Jughead watches as she taps one finger on her lower lip and selects several notebooks before closing the door and twirling the lock.

He steps out of a doorway and approaches her with caution. The last thing he wants is to make her nervous or think he’s a creeper. Still, she needs to know the rest of her stuff will be gone by morning if he doesn’t help. “Don’t bother with that,” he says, propping one palm on the graffiti’d wall beside her head. “You need your own lock or the rats will clear out everything you own as soon as you walk out of here.” He punches the top left corner of her locker, popping it open, and tilts his head to look straight into her widened eyes. “See?”

Nodding, Betty scoops the rest of her books into one arm and closes the door with her hip. It turns her towards Jughead, almost within the curve of his arm. _Nice,_ he thinks. The Betty situation is going his way after all.

“I appreciate the help.” Her voice trembles, and Jughead wonders if she wants him to go in for a kiss. But already she moves out of the circle of his arm, books weighing her down. “Tomorrow I’ll bring my own lock,” she adds. “See you then.”

“Wait.” He catches up with her at the corner, reflecting it’s the latest he’s stayed in school after hours. “Want me to walk you to your ride?”

“It’s a free country.” Her smile belies the dismissive words, confirming the mystery around her. It’s as if Betty simultaneously reaches out and pushes him away.

Persistence might win him that kiss or at least another smile. Jughead can hear FP’s voice telling him to _Be a gentleman, all right?_ as he opens the main door for her and follows Betty down the stairs at the entrance. “Did you drive?” he asks. “You didn’t walk, did you? Tell me you didn’t walk.”

She gives him a slanted look from under her golden lashes. “Bus.”

“I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

“Look.” Betty stops in the sidewalk, ignoring catcalls from Sweet Pea and Fangs. “I appreciate the help, but I’m fine, really. You must have things you need to do, chores or…”

“Chores?” Jughead grins. “The cows are all milked, and we don’t have to shear the sheep until next harvest time. And as you just pointed out, it’s a free country. Maybe I’m on the bus too.”

He definitely doesn’t take the bus, but this time his curiosity has grown to an unbearable itch. Betty dips her head in acknowledgement and follows him to the end of the sidewalk, refusing his offer to hold her books. She insists she’s fine, strong from working out.

“Is that so.” Jughead wants to watch the way her biceps bunch under the thin fabric of her sweater as she switches those damned texts from one hand to the other. “Your funeral, Betty.”

The first bus pulls up, and Betty adjust her backpack. “This is me,” she says. “Have a nice evening, and thanks again for the advice.”

“Wait.” Jughead frowns at the electronic board over the wide windshield. “This is Bus 13. No one takes 13.”

“Superstitious?”

Jughead’s jaw drops as Betty winks at him. Before he can tell her to stop, not to do it, he’ll give her a ride home instead, she climbs into the entrails of the #13 bus. The doors close behind her with a loud hiss. His hands dangle uselessly by his sides as he watches the thing lurch into traffic, gain speed, and cross Lorimer Street into the worst section of Southside.

Even the Ghoulies don’t go there, ever since they closed Southside Asylum and the old toy factory.

Where the hell does she live? Should he follow her?

Jughead grimaces, decides that’s definitely crossing into creep territory. Still, he’ll put out a few feelers to see what he can find out about Betty Cooper.

#

Sunnyside is filling up with shadows when Jughead parks beside FP’s trailer. As he climbs off his bike and heads to the shabby steps, the door of the neighboring motor home pops open. “Kid,” the occupant calls.

Jughead smothers a groan. “Hi, Penny.” He hopes his expression makes him look civil but also way too busy to chat.

“Help me with this old mattress? My old man’s going to haul it to the dump if I get the damn thing outside in three minutes.”

“Sorry, I have to …” Jughead turns, remembering she was an attorney at the doll factory before it closed down. “Actually, maybe I do have a few moments to spare, Ms. Peabody.”

Penny grunts, lights a cigarette, and waves him inside. Her home is tidy with no sign of her JJ habit - Penny Peabody’s been a functioning addict for years. “Back that way,” she says, blowing out a cloud of smoke from the side of her mouth. “Bed’s on its side. You can’t miss it.”

She’s right. The rusted frame nearly traps Jughead inside Penny’s bedroom before he’s able to wrestle the old boxspring outside and throw it on the scrubby grass near her steps. When he straightens, wiping his palms on his jeans and trying not to think too much about what’s happened on that mattress, Penny’s watching him with eyes like slits. “You’ve sprouted up like a weed,” she comments.

He chooses to ignore that comment. “So, listen. Do you know anything about the area beyond Latimer Street? Are the hipsters moving in and renovating the asylum or something?”

“Latimer Street! You kidding? That’s the Infection Zone. No one goes there unless they’re stupid, or crazy, or both.” Penny takes one last drag, pinches her cigarette between finger and thumb, flicks the glowing end into the darkness. “Why’re you asking?”

“Saw Bus 13 today. I thought they closed down that line a year ago.”

“They did.” Penny folds her arms and tilts up her chin. “You must have made a mistake.”

The last thing he wants to do is get her interested in anything to do with Betty. Jughead nods, comments she might be right, and digs in his pocket for the key to FP’s trailer.

He opens the door, flings the keys on the scarred surface of the coffee table, and looks around. The place is empty, since his dad's probably already on his usual seat at the Wyrm. Jughead busies himself with finding food: a slice of leftover pizza, half a pack of chips, and an apple. The milk is gone, so he fills a jellyglass with tapwater at the chipped sink.

When he turns with the plate in one fist, a dark figure stands inside the trailer. Jughead nearly drops the plate, smothers a squeal that want to emerge in way too high a register, and feels his heart thud against his chest. “Penny, Jesus! What the hell do you want?”

“Sorry to scare you, kid.” She flicks out two fingers with a card held between them, and gingerly he takes it. “I remembered someone who might be able to help you if you’re really interested in the Infection. No promises, but if you treat her right she’ll give you information. More if you want it.”

With a harsh whiskey laugh, Penny turns on her heel and walks out. The old door screeches shut behind her.

Jughead puts his plate on the counter and frowns at the card she’s handed him. There’s a phone number under Music Lessons and a name printed in flowing type:

_Geraldine Grundy._


	2. Chapter 2

The time between meeting a girl and first hook-up is Jughead’s favorite, since it’s so magical and fleeting. Anything could happen after the first hello before cold reality sets in, along with jealousy, bad tempers, and the usual arrows of poverty-stricken Southside.

Betty could turn out to be a spoiled princess, a psycho, or some dreadful combination of both.

At present she’s golden with the excitement of someone new. Jughead sits on the steps of the trailer, tips his head back, and blows smoke at the stars: they’re hard to see with all the neon lights from the Whyte Worm and Sweet Pea’s Hastings Street bodega, but Jughead knows they’re there. Omega Centauri, the Pleiades, Melotte 111. He’d like to bring Betty to an open field and search the skies with a telescope.

His curiosity compels him to pull the card Penny gave him out of a back pocket, squint at it through his cigarette smoke, and finally decide to make the call. Jughead punches in the numbers with one thumb before taking a final drag and murdering the glowing stub under the heel of his leather boot.

“Hello?” Grundy’s voice is husky. Maybe he’s woken her up. Jughead considers and rejects an apology before asking about music lessons – he can always just show up, pretend to be interested in the drums or a tuba, and pick the lady’s brains. “Yes," she says in answer to his request. "I have an opening for another student. Would you like to stop by tomorrow?”

The woman gives him an address close enough to Latimer Street to make Jughead pause. Is he being an idiot? Should he give up the whole idea?

“Hello?” Geraldine Grundy’s voice sharpens. “Is this a crank call? I don’t have time for nonsense or students who aren’t serious.”

“Tell you what,” Jughead placates. “Could I stop by, pay for one lesson, see if we’re a good fit?” He can attempt to pick her brains about the Infection Zone.

A few moments pass. He hears something bubble in the background followed by Grundy sharp exclamation. “Sorry, kettle’s on the stove,” she says. “I suppose that would work, although I’ll charge an extra 20$ for the trial. Refundable if you take a full course.”

Jughead taps the hole in his jeans centered over one knee. After the Serpents’ last Canada run, he can afford to fund his personal investigation into The Cooper Affair. “Give me your address,” he says at last.

#

In English class the next day, Malachai leans over Betty’s desk. Jughead can hear the idiot’s untamed laugh before he slouches through the door, so his blood is at Fahrenheit 451 even before he sees the Ghoulie reach over and flip Betty’s ponytail.

Jughead strides forward and drops into the chair beside Betty before Malachai can plant his no-good, drug-running ass next to her. “Seat’s taken,” he declares. “Go on,” he adds when the guy gapes at him. “There are better ways to catch flies, like rolling in syrup and running around Walmart. Bye.” Pointedly he turns his back on Malachai and leans one elbow on the side of her seat.

Betty’s lips twitch at his approach as Malachai makes a face and leaves. “While I appreciate the concern, I do have to point out you don't sit here.”

“Well, I do now.”

Jughead’s about to make it clear no one else will be sitting next to her when he’s around, when the principal walks in and clears her throat. She attempts to make an announcement, but Sweet Pea is in the middle of a loud flirtation with a few girls in the back corner of the classroom. Jughead’s about to join in with some catcalls of his own, when he sees Betty shake her head and lean on her wrist. She looks tired, he realizes, exhausted by what? Where she lives? Southside itself? Fools like Sweet Pea and Malachai? Maybe Jughead as well?

He turns and lobs a wadded piece of paper at Sweet Pea. “Hey, let the lady speak.” It’s unexpected enough to stop Sweet Pea mid-sentence, and a sudden lull falls over the room.

The principal coughs. “As I was saying, Mr. Phillips has had to give up his position. I know this is last minute, but we’ll have a substitute just as soon as I can get someone from the service. In the meantime, I’m going to hand out a packet of worksheets. Grammar drills, vocabulary, that kind of thing …”

As one, the students groan. Jughead pictures the next few days of boring exercises and wrist-cramping busywork, all because a teacher decided to move to another school.

Betty stands up. “Or we create our own project,” she suggests. “I could come up with a list of ideas and submit them to you by the end of the day for approval. Or, better yet, we could start a school newspaper right now and work in groups.”

“That sounds more like a party than actual work,” the principal argues. Instantly Sweet Pea emits an approving whoop, echoed by Toni.

“We would need to use grammar and vocabulary to produce the paper.” Alight with interest, Betty glows under the flickering diode tubes. “It would be real-world experience, the kind that’s meaningful instead of mindless memorization.”

Jughead raises one finger. “So, I could write some articles,” he mumbles. His reward is a smile from Betty, bright enough to fuel all of Sunnyside.

“I guess I could take pictures,” Toni offers. When Sweet Pea swivels to stare at her in horror, she shrugs. “What? It sounds a hell of a lot better than stupid worksheets.”

“Not doing it.” Malachai leans against the back wall and crosses one boot over the other. “Sounds like a bunch of bullshit.”

Betty turns and seems to inflate. Jughead can tell she’s about to launch into a long speech about the quest for knowledge, meaningless in Malachai’s world. To head her off, Jughead stands up, points at Malachai, and lowers his voice. “You’ll keep quiet about the damn paper or my first article will be about what happened the back of the Wyrm last Friday.”

The two stare at each other, a deadly stand-off. Finally Malachai emits his ridiculous giggle and punches the wall. “Fuck you, Jones.” He shakes his head when the principal stammers out a few Shush nows and Hey hey boys. “I’m out. Got it?”

“Got it,” Toni snaps. “Shut your face and don't let the door hit you in the ass.”

#

The room subsides when Malachai walks out, slamming the door behind him with a resounding crash. Jughead slides a quick look at Betty's dimple, which has just appeared in her right cheek. He looks down, trying to school his features into the sarcastic and sardonic gang member Southside has come to expect.

Toni gets pulled up front to outline the newspaper project on the one board that hasn’t been hacked up or torched. “You should be doing that,” Jughead says under his breath, pointing to the front of the room.

Betty shakes her head, ponytail bobbing in her zeal. “No. She’s perfect. Nobody knows me, so they’d resent my leadership. Toni’s smart, strong, and you can’t deny she looks good up there.”

“I guess.” Jughead fiddles with his pencil. “But Malachai’s going to hose this whole thing before we ink a single issue.”

She sits up straighter, and her smile widens. “I’m counting on it. He'll make everyone in here angry if he does. Nothing creates a cohesive group faster than a common enemy.”

Jughead raises both brows. She’s got the grace and steel of a classic movie star like Katherine Hepburn or Myrna Loy. Betty knows when to step back and when to spring into action.

The endless school year has just become a lot more interesting.

#

Bolt upright like a mermaid statue among a shoal of wave-tossed ships, Betty sits alone at a table in the far corner of the cafeteria. Jughead doesn’t think twice as he strides to sit next to her. She doesn’t seem surprised, just holds out a cookie when he plops his sack lunch next to hers.

It’s chocolate chip studded with M&M’s, fragrant with butter and brown sugar. “Did you make this?” he demands.

“Maybe. If you like it, then yes I did.”

Jughead devours the cookie in two bites. “I like it.” He also likes the way the corners of her eyes crinkle, a secret smile. He likes the neat lines of her sweater, the determined curve of that damn ponytail, the way she seems to brace herself towards a future enemy.

They’re interrupted by the arrival of Sweet Pea, Fangs Fogarty, and Toni. She raps one knuckle on the table to get attention, and asks, “What did you think of the class?”

Betty turns down the corners of her mouth as if she’s thinking. “So far, pretty good. Right now the idea’s new and shiny, but today you handed out roles, set up expectations, gave us a clear schedule. Things will spiral a bit the next few weeks, that’s only natural, but with a system of intrinsic rewards you’ll keep the excitement going.”

“Damn.” Toni slams back in her chair and rakes Betty with her glare. “Look at you. Intrinsic rewards, huh? And just how the hell am I supposed to do that? We can’t exactly afford donuts or Pretzel Fridays, you know.”

“Donuts and pretzels are extrinsic,” Jughead murmurs.

“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Jones. In that case, what exactly did you two have in mind?”

“Hard-hitting journalism.” Betty inclines forward, clasping her hands. Toni, Fangs, and even Sweet Pea lean in as well. “Puff pieces are boring. What’s interesting about plans for the next dance or spelling bees?”

“And I repeat,” Toni says through her teeth, “what do you have in mind?”

“Money.” Jughead decides it's time for him to join in. He takes out his bottle of tap water and twists off the cap. “Why don’t we get the same financing as Riverdale High? They sport new computer labs and football fields. We don’t even have lockers.”

Sweet Pea nods. “Right? My shit gets stolen once a week.”

Betty wriggles as if she can’t contain her excitement. “Yes. People always want to know more about money.”

“Drugs,” Fangs offers. “There’s a river of them running right through Southside.”

“Booze. Half the student body is drunk by noon.”

“Food. The lunches here suck.”

“Corruption. I bet the principal’s getting a pay-off.”

“Didn’t I hear something about missing money? Like, 750,000 dollars from the budget?”

Betty sits back, having tossed such a successful conversational grenade. Jughead nudges her and says, “We could also bring in cookies on Fridays, nothing wrong with a little extrinsic backslap, right?”

“And just where are you getting these cookies from to food the crew?” Her voice brims with laughter, and he feels his face crease in response. “Seriously, all of these ideas are amazing. I’m blown away.”

“But we're in the Southside.” Jughead wipes his mouth on a square of paper towel and stifles a burp. “Hard-hitting journalism is all very well, but these kids will want more. How about adding some fiction? A serial with romance and adventure exciting enough to keep the readers coming back.”

“Extra,” Sweet Pea breathes. “This is going to be the shit.”

Jughead isn’t really paying attention as Toni laughs and elbows Sweet Pea. Under the cafeteria table, he feels the merest brush of Betty’s fingernail on the hem of his jeans. Their eyes meet and everything seems to click into place, satisfying as the final piece of a puzzle.

#

Geraldine Grundy lives far down Main Street, just across the border from the Infection Zone. Her house is a scrubby split-level with a sign on the stamp-sized lawn advertising Music Lessons. The mat outside the door is so ancient the WEL has worn off, leaving only COME.

Inside a slender figure bends over a cello, visible through the aluminum screen door. Jughead raps with one knuckle, already feeling silly about his errand. He’s being the worst kind of creeper in the guise of investigative reporting. No, it’s not even journalism – he’s crossed into stalker territory.

When Miss Grundy gets up to answer the door, the sight of her makes Jughead feel better. She’s almost mousy with her hair in a tired knot and old-fashioned glasses slipping down her nose.

“Jughead Jones?” The same voice on the phone, husky as though she’s catching her breath. “Are we still going with a single lesson?”

 _Money. Right._ He digs in his pocket, withdraws a bundle of grimy ones, and hands them to her. She folds them in her pocket, gestures to the makeshift music studio, and asks him if he’s selected an instrument.

Drummers always seemed cool and aloof behind their massive kits, but Jughead figures the noise of a drum wouldn’t allow for conversation. His eye falling on an upright piano between two paintings of sad-eyed clowns. “That,” he declares. “Teach me some piano.”

#

Miss Grundy numbers Jughead’s fingers with a wax pencil, a lock of hair escaping the twist of hair to fall over her cheek. He’s shown how to line up his hands, look at the music, follow the notes. It’s really just memorizing which finger goes where, and after a few minutes he’s able to thump out a tune reminiscent of nursery school. “Hey, I played something,” he grins.

Grundy elbows him. “This is always my favorite part,” she says. “A student’s first break-through is magical.” She seems to be waiting for something, almost pressing next to him on the uncomfortable piano bench, and he swallows his discomfort.

“You’re a great teacher,” he says. “I’m surprised I never heard of you before Penny gave me your card. Have you lived here long?”

She pushes up her glasses with one finger. “Oh. No. I opened this studio a few months ago.”

“Where were you before? Just curious,” he adds when she raises one eyebrow.

Behind the thick lenses, her gaze drops. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Why not?” Jughead fans his fingers on the keys and repeats the jangly little tune he just learned.

“Because I’m not proud of my past.” Grundy’s lips quiver, and she presses them together.

“I’m not proud of mine either. Probably there are a lot of Southsiders who’d say the same thing.” Jughead turns to face her on the rickety bench. “Were you in trouble?”

“You could say that.” Grundy takes a deep breath. “After one too many black eyes, I left an abusive husband. Changed my name, hit the road, got jobs wherever I could. You have to understand…” Her palm slips over Jughead’s fingers on the piano. “I was lost. There were – people – who filled that void. Lovers. Let’s just say I got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was sent to Latimer Asylum as part of a plea-bargain.”

Suspicion is starting to uncoil in Jughead’s belly, a snake waking up from the cold, and he bets he could name the lawyer who got her the bargain. He wants to shake off Grundy’s touch, but she’s on a roll. If he moved now, he might stop her flow of information.

“Do you know anything about the asylum now?” he asks.

Her eyes widen. “It’s a terrible place. When the authorities shut it down and we were freed, I ran and never looked back.”

_Yeah, well. You didn’t run too far._

Jughead’s cynicism is interrupted by the music teacher’s touch, trailing up his forearm and onto his neck. “I hate to think of those dark times. Need a distraction, you know? Glass of wine, good music, a warm body to cling to…” With a eel-like twist, Miss Grundy slides closer and covers his mouth with hers. At the same moment, she cups his groin, a shocking and frantic touch.

He stands up so quickly the piano bench wobbles and crashes onto the cheap rental rug, spilling sheet music in an accusing wave. “Sorry,” Jughead gabbles. “About the, um.” Vaguely he gestures at the mess, grabs his jacket, and lopes to the door. “See myself out,” he adds. “Thanks.”

The last thing he sees as the screen door closes are Grundy's eyes, wet and hot with frustrated desire.

#

Jughead runs to the bodega, buys a warm ginger ale, and drinks half of it in two gulps. He feels soiled from the music lesson, guilty as if he broke parole or scrawled graffiti on a delicate portrait inside an art gallery.

If he went back to the trailer, he’ll lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Instead he slouches away from the bodega towards Latimer Street, soda bottle sweating in his fist.

A crumbling wall separates Southside from the Infection Zone. He’s seen boundary so many times it’s almost ceased to exist.

On an impulse, Jughead finds a few footholds, climbs, and hauls himself up to sit astride the wall. From this lookout he can see Southside to his right and, on the left, the Infection Zone where Betty disappears after school each day.

Southside is familiar in its garish and neon-lit decline. As Jughead watches, the pink and orange lights in front of the bodega flicker off, a sign it’s closed for the night. A few cars screech around the street corners. There’s a trashcan on fire, surrounded by the pale faces of jangle users. To Jughead, the sordid splendor is as familiar as his own skin.

Over the wall, the Zone lies in complete darkness. Only starlight betrays the bulk of the Asylum bunched beside the old toy factory. Nothing moves. The place sleeps in a shroud of silence.

Jughead rests his chin on one knee and taps the ginger ale bottle against the wall. The thought of sliding over the wall into that quiet darkness shrivels his bones, if he’s honest with himself.

The day’s events pop flash in his mind’s eye, a broken movie reel. Toni’s face, bright with interest as she writes on the board. Sweet Pea grinning at lunch. Grundy’s face, warm with desire.

Grundy. Jesus. Jughead barks a laugh at himself, shaking his head. _You got hit on tonight, pal, by a cougar._

It was an intrusion, not a notch on his belt. In fact, the entire music lesson – Miss Grundy’s heated kiss, her insinuating tongue, the way she openly groped him – is eclipsed by one tiny and lovely memory.

Betty’s touch, the merest brush of her finger on the hem of Jughead’s old jeans, is far more erotic than anything Geraldine Grundy could ever try on a creaky piano stool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I taught in several inner-city and suburban schools. All of the issues raised by the Serpents in this chapter as well as the burned out blackboard were drawn from real life.


	3. Chapter 3

Jughead stumbles out of bed and lurches down the hall in search of morning coffee. On autopilot, he finds the bag of Eight O’Clock grounds, fills the basket, and prays this isn’t the day the old percolator finally dies.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

He shrieks and whirls around in the tiny kitchen, one hand pressed to his heart. Penny sits on the couch, ankles crossed in corner-kicker boots. “Jesus,” Jughead gasps. “You have to stop doing that.” The percolator clatters onto FP’s scarred countertop, and Jughead runs his fingers through what is probably the worst bedhead ever. “Uh, what’s up?”

Penny unfolds herself from the couch, blows out a long stream of smoke, and stalks into the kitchen. Although he knows she’s being deliberately intimidating, Jughead has to admit it works. There’s something unsettling about her direct, pale eyes and the way she focuses on him like a bull shark. “You weren’t very nice to my friend,” she says. “I gave you her card as a favor, and you rejected Geraldine.”

“Uh, no. Actually, I did _you_ a favor by helping you with your mattress. Later you showed up here unannounced and handed me that card out of the blue, so I'm assuming it was my tip. We’re even.”

Her eyes flatten as she inhales deeply on her Camel. “You want to stay on my good side.” Penny punctuates this by lifting the lid of the percolator and dropping the cigarette inside. It extinguishes with a hiss.

Exhausted by her bitchery, Jughead rubs tired lids with both thumbs. He hears boot heels on the vinyl tiles, followed by a creak and the slam of a screen door. When he opens his eyes once more, the trailer is empty.

#

Jughead suffers through Algebra and American History. He falls asleep during a long lecture on the socio-economic causes of the Cold War, wakes to find he’s drooled on the desk, and pulls himself together long enough to make it to his locker.

A shadows falls over his combination lock, and with a grunt of annoyance Jughead looks up from the numbers. “You look like shit,” Malachai says as he pulls open his jacket to reveal a row of paper cylinders with bright wrappers. “Want a bump?”

Before Jughead can reply, a determined wraith wedges herself between him and Malachai. “The man needs coffee.” Betty holds out a travel cup with steam rising from the lid. “Black, right?” 

Jughead blows out a groan of relief as she hands him the cup. “We’re good here,” she adds to Malachai, who still lounges against the lockers.

Her intervention is the subtlest _Fuck off_ Jughead’s ever seen. He winks at her and drains half his coffee in one scalding, glorious gulp as Malachai sucks his teeth and backs off.

“That went well,” she comments. “Walk me to English?”

Jughead offers her one elbow with a flourish. “Madam, I should be obliged.”

#

English has always been his favorite class, but now it’s become a refuge from Southside High’s jagged reality. The newspaper is coming together in a growing folder kept on the room’s single functioning computer where Toni scowls at the screen, considering the file of photos she’s taken for the front page. As Jughead watches, she deletes another picture and slumps sideways on the desk. “Shite,” she says. “They’re all pure cow turds.”

Fangs points at the next picture. “Couldn’t you crop this one section, blow it up and enhance? I like the girl’s face. You made her look sad but beautiful.”

"She’s beautiful without any help from my camera.” Toni leans on her wrist and reconsiders. “Maybe you’re right.”

Jughead looks at his own piece, the first edited chapter of his serial story for the paper. It’s covered with red marks, and their source is bent over Sweet Pea’s desk. “This sentence where you compare Southside to an orphan in a fairytale is amazing,” Betty says. “Any chance you could expand? Add some specifics?”

“Like Cinderella?” he asks.

“Sure, if you want to go that way. I was thinking more along the lines of Rabbit Boy or Double Face.”

Sweet Pea’s face lights up, and he launches into a long list of ideas. He and Betty look like old friends, not a displaced cheerleader and gang member who’s been sent to juvey for knife-fights and street races.

Something jitters on the desk next to Jughead’s forearm, bringing him back to the present. He looks down and sees Betty’s phone, set to vibrate and forgotten in her zeal to work on their paper.

A long text unspools there like a paramecium under glass. He sees the words and, once he begins to read, cannot stop:

BETTY. BETTY. BETTY.

YOU WILL RULE THE DARKNESS LIKE THE QUEEN YOU ARE. NO ONE MUST TOUCH YOU. YOU ARE MINE. YOU ARE MINE, MY ELIZABETH. IF ANYONE DARES TO LAY ONE FINGER ON YOU, I WILL CUT OUT HIS HEART AND EAT IT AS HE WATCHES WITH HIS LAST BREATH. I WILL POUR HIS BLOOD LIKE WINE FOR YOU TO DRINK FROM HIS SKULL.

I WAIT HERE FOR YOU IN OUR HOME. THE TIME PASSES SO SLOWLY UNTIL YOU RETURN.

The contact's name is 'Mr. Hood.'

As Jughead watches, another text scrolls up from the same source. It’s followed by another and another, all as insane as the first.

Across the room, Betty's sunburst smile is bright as she laughs at something Sweet Pea says. She’s far too normal, too intelligent to put up with such a constant onslaught of madness. The paper has been her idea, she’s made friends at Southside. Hell, her sweaters are pink with jeweled collars. Those texts must be some dreadful type of spam.

But as he reaches to turn off her phone, it shivers and spits out another message.

STRAIGHT HOME ON BUS 13. COME TO MY ROOM AS SOON AS YOU GET BACK. DO NOT TALK TO ANYONE ON THE WAY, OR I’LL TURN HIM INSIDE-OUT AND FRY HIS BRAINS.

#

Although he’s next to Betty at lunch, Jughead finds it’s impossible to talk to her about what he just saw. First Toni interrupts to show her a few photos, followed by Sweet Pea with his rewrite. Betty’s ponytail bounces as she looks at the camera and messy sheets of paper, intent on each project.

The peanut butter sandwich sticks in his mouth, and Jughead throws it down after one bite. His heart thumps, and the tips of his ears heat up under his beanie.

He’s so furious he might choke.

Someone – this Mr. Hood – thinks he owns Betty. _Owns_ Betty. So much so, in fact, that he has sent message after message. How many? Five? Ten? One ever few minutes, every hour of ever day?

She laughs at something Sweet Pea says, a golden girl. Jughead wants to pull her into his arms, protect her, find this Hood bastard and yell at him to back off. _She’s mine,_ he wants to shout, _how dare you even look at her, get out of her phone, stay the hell away from my girl._

But does it make him just as bad as her abuser, this Mr. Hood?

One thing’s clear – he needs to figure out how to help her, and another night spent in SunnySide won’t accomplish anything. Jughead must find a way into The Infection Zone and see it for himself.

But if he doesn’t want to be a creeper, he’ll need to talk to her first.

#

Jughead waits until Bus 13’s doors are nearly closed before wedging his body sideways onto the moving vehicle. The driver wears an obviously fake red hairpiece and an expression of mild surprise as Jughead slips into the front seat.

There’s only one other passenger on the bus. Betty sits towards the back, head bent over a book. 13 lurches into traffic, and Jughead lurches to her side. “Is this seat taken?”

Betty looks up and gasps. “Juggie! What the heck? You can’t be here.”

He collapses into the seat beside her and props one arm on the back. “Yeah, well. I'm here. This thing sways worse than Old Pringle after his eighth tequila at the Wyrm, by the way.”

“Jug, you have to get off right now.”

“I will, if that’s what you want.” He turns, the motion bringing him closer. “Is it? Is that what you want me to do?”

Her eyes are wide, frightened. “No,” Betty whispers. “But there’s no other choice.”

Jughead tilts his head to murmur in her ear. “Betty Cooper, are you in trouble?”

They sway in tandem as the bus goes over a deep pothole, staring into each other’s eyes. Finally Betty nods, a tiny gesture.

“Do you want me to back off?”

She doesn’t move as the bus stops at the single traffic light on Lorimer Street. They’re bracketed by a shady moving truck on one side and a shoal of bicyclists on the other, but as 13 approaches the crumbling wall surrounding the Infection Zone, the other traffic dissolves into the asphalt capillaries of the Southside until only the bus is left on the road.

Betty doesn't answer. She pulls out a tube of lipstick and turns away to consider her reflection in the smudged glass window.

Jughead heaves a sigh, not realizing until that moment how much he hoped she would let him into her mysterious world. “Okay.” He’s about to get up and stalk to the front of the bus, but she grabs his forearm and writes on his skin in lipstick: _Library 8:30._

As she releases him, the bus stops so violently Jughead is nearly propelled out of his seat. 13’s door opens with a hiss, and the redheaded driver turns around to glare at them. “End of the line,” the man declares.

#

The Whyte Wyrm is empty except for two drunks, the smell of cheap whiskey, and a tired selection of lemons. Jughead throws his messenger bag on the bar and shouts, “Dad!” When nothing happens, he tries again. “FP!”

“Jesus, kid.” FP appears from behind the bar, rubbing his forehead. “Think you could yell any louder? Don’t think they heard you in Riverdale.”

Jughead gulps in air and frowns. “Were you sleeping back there?”

“It was a quiet nap spot until you barreled in.” FP turns over a shot glass, tosses up a bottle of amber liquid, and catches it behind his back before pouring a double. Despite the gymnastics, Jughead can see his father shakes from too much hard living in the past 24 hours.

Gently, Jughead covers FP’s hand with his own. “How about I make you some coffee, Dad? And you sit and talk to me for a few minutes? I actually needed to ask you something.”

“Skip the coffee, but I’ll help you if I can.” FP gulped down his drink, slammed the shot glass on the bar, and poured another. “Whaddya need, kid?”

“Suppose I know a girl who’s in trouble. Could I count on the Serpents to back me up? If it comes to that?”

“A girl, huh?” Fixing Jughead with his signature quasar stare, FP leaned on the bar and made a series of wet ring patterns on a napkin. “Is she pretty? Don't tell me it's yours, boy.”

“She’s very pretty, but it's not the kind of trouble you're thinking about. Betty's in the middle of deeply freaky shit.” Jughead eases onto the barstool and leans his chin on one fist. Even with FP’s whiskey breath blowing on his face, it feels good to talk to his dad.

FP laughs, which turns into a bout of coughing. “Betty, huh? I haven’t heard of anyone with that name since the 60’s. And yes, of course I've got your back. Just tell me what you need. Uh, you want one of these? No cops are around.” He waves the bottle at his son.

“I’m good, thanks.” Warmth pours through Jughead’s body. “Thanks, Dad. It really means a lot to know I can count on you.”

“Yeah, well.” FP squints. “What kind of freaky shit are we talking about? That this Betty is in, I mean?”

“It has something to do with the Infection Zone…”

The three words have an instant effect on FP. He tosses back the rest of the alcohol, throws the glass into a corner, and jabs his finger into Jughead’s face. “Don’t even say that name, you understand me? We’re not going there, not now, not ever. If your girl is involved in the Zone, she’s fucked and there’s nothing we can do about it. Stay away from her, and if I hear you went over the wall to that hell on earth, I will beat your ass so bad you won’t be able to sit down for a month.”

The warm glow fades. Jughead sits in shock before he picks up his messenger bag and slides off the barstool.

It's been a nice fantasy, the idea of father and son riding together into battle to save a beautiful victim. He should have known it was only a dream.

#

“We’re closing.” The man behind the desk points to the library schedule.

“It says you close at 9.” Jughead holds up his phone and taps the time. “8:30, which means I’ve got half-an-hour to wreak havoc.” When the guy’s jaw drops, Jughead adds, “Kidding. I just need an article for school.”

He raps one knuckle on the desk and heads the back of Southside’s shabby public library. The shelves are filled with second-hand items, dated texts, and old encyclopedias no one opens any more.

The place still smells like old books and print ink, a combination that takes Jughead back to when he was 10. FP used to bring him in every Saturday and let him check out a few books. It was their one standing tradition - Southside's library followed by milkshakes at Pops.

Now, seven years later, all of the reading desks and tables are empty. Jughead browses the old furniture, hoping against hope that a slender blond will appear by stacks or from behind the water cooler.

It’s not the first time that day Jughead’s been disappointed. Sucking his teeth in disgust, he’s about to head out and give the moody librarian the gift of early closing.

“Psst. Jughead.”

The tiny whisper is almost lost among the hiss of oil heaters and humming neon lights. Jughead looks up and sees the end of a bright ponytail disappear into 119.5 – 133.3, the shelf for Knowledge, Cause, Purpose, Man, Parapsychology, and Occultism.

He slips behind her. It’s dark in that space, as though she’s led him to an alternate reality. Betty runs a finger over the spines of the books, and they crinkle under her touch. Standing next to her, Jughead shivers as if her oval nail scratch onto his own flesh.

“Hey."

“Jughead,” Betty whispers. “I know why you're here. Did you read the texts on my phone today?”

And there it is, no polite preamble or gradual shift to the main point. “Yeah,” he admits. “I didn’t mean to pry, but you were with Sweet Pea, and I couldn't helps seeing them when they popped up.”

Betty closes her eyes briefly. “I don’t suppose you could forget this ever happened?”

Fury prickles in his nostrils. Jughead steps close and grips her shoulders. “I’m pretty damn sure I can’t just forget you’re in trouble and need help. What the hell is going on?”

“That,” she answers, “is a long story. There are people involved, Jug. Their lives could be in danger if he finds out I snuck over the wall to meet you.”

“He?” Her sweater is soft under his fingers. “ _He_ is this Mr. Hood? The answer’s yes, I can see it in your eyes. Is he threatening you? How can he send you such insane texts, day after day?” Jughead swallows but makes himself ask the question that’s been thrumming through his veins all evening. “How long have you been living with this?”

“Five hundred and twenty-three days, two hours, and nineteen minutes.”

The library seems to sway around them. _Dear Lord,_ Jughead thinks. _Nearly two years._ “Come with me,” he growls. “We’ll climb on my bike and won’t look back. I’ll head southeast and we’ll go all the way to the ocean.”

She blinks. “That sounds perfect and lovely.”

“Will you come with me? Let's go right now, Betty. I know a place where I can get some money, and we'll hit the road.”

“No. I said there are other lives in the balance. If I ran from him now, my – well. People I care about could get hurt.”

He wants to tip over the library shelves. He wants to shout and scream with frustration. He wants to pick her up and feel her thighs tight around his hips, find the hot and liquid core of Betty Cooper. “I’ll rescue them as well,” Jughead offers wildly.

Betty shakes her head, a definite gesture. Jughead’s beginning to know her enough to see her answer won’t change – once Betty makes up her mind, it’s set in stone. “You just gave me a dream,” she whispers. “When things get really bad, I’ll pretend I'm not there any longer. I’ll be on your bike with you, heading west on Route 66.”

“There’s no way forward for us?” His chest feels raw, red, as if a live creature is inside and scratching to get out.

Her eyes become misty as she shakes her head. “No. I’m sorry. You have to forget this ever happened, or I won’t even be allowed to go to school any longer.”

Jughead draws in a long and shuddering breath. Although he’s grown up in a trailer, things he wanted have come easily to him: main spot in The Serpents, sweet bike parked on the street, girls who caught his eye. And now, when he can’t have her, Betty has become the one thing he wants more than anything else.

“So this would be a bad idea?” He inches forward and puts his palms on each side of her face. “Or this?”

“Yes.” Betty doesn’t move. “This is a very, very bad idea.” Their lips brush together on the final word with accidental electricity.

He can’t stand it any longer. Jughead bends and licks into her, tasting tongue and sweet breath. “Baby girl, I’m coming to get you,” he breathes against her mouth. 


	4. Chapter 4

After a long Saturday hauling full bottles in and empties out of the Wyrm, Jughead grabs Sweet Pea as the kid finishes a rewire job on the bar's speaker system. “Doing anything later?” he asks.

“This is so sudden.” Sweet Pea tosses a pair of snips into the old lunch box he uses for tools and winks. “I’m not that kind of girl, Jones.”

“Up yours. Listen, I want you to check out the wall with me. See if we can find a way in – and back out again, that’s probably important.”

“Wait, what wall?” Sweet Pea slams his palms on the bar and shakes his head. “You’re talking about the Zone, right? Oh God, you’re talking about the Zone.”

“We’re not going to rush in there with guns blazing,” Jughead argues. “I just want to reconnoiter.”

“You don’t simply reconnoiter in the Zone.” Sweet Pea collapses on a bar stool. “I’ve known you a long time. We’re practically brothers. But do you know what went down there? Tony’s grandfather used to work in that toy factory before the dark suits came in and bought out the place. My aunt got kicked out of the Asylum a day later, and the wall went up practically overnight after that. Of course people tried to sneak in – kids, right? – but they came back changed. With some seriously weird stories. Joaquin dated a guy who disappeared after he went over there one night.”

“I get it.” Jughead pulls a rumpled dollar out of his pocket, throws it on the bar, and helps himself to a few Slim Jims from a chipped glass canister. “And I wouldn’t ask you to do this for shits and giggles, but there’s a mystery here in the Southside. Someone we both know has a secret life, but I can’t say anything else about it. So don't ask.”

“Oh, you mean how Betty lives in the Zone and has some weird dude texting her threats?” Sweet Pea steals one of the Slim Jims and unwraps it.

“ _What?_ How did you know?”

“I’m not an idiot, Jones. I can read a situation.” Sweet Pea heaves a long, put-upon sigh. “Have to admit you’re right. She needs help even if she's the kind of chick who wears designer sweaters and kid leather mary janes. But what the hell, Jug? You and I are two Crips riding junkers and trolling for gas. In the end this'll get us both killed or maimed, or both.”

“I’m just saying we go to the wall when it’s dark, check things out as quietly as possible, and see if there’s any way inside _without_ taking the Highway to Hell.”

The Slim Jim wrapper crumples in Sweet Pea’s fist. “Ugh. I know you’re not going to stop until I give in and agree to help. But if we die tonight I’m so kicking your ass.”

“Yesss.” Jughead jumps off the barstool. “Meet me at the bodega around nine?”

“You buying the Cokes?”

Jughead considers and nods. “Okay. See you there.” He slings his messenger bag over one shoulder, heads to the door, and pauses. “Hey, Sweet Pea?”

The kid looks up from wrestling with the lunch box. “What?”

“Where the hell did you learn about kid leather mary janes?”

#

He’s on edge, anxious for nighttime but also frightened as a mouse in a trap. Jughead’s world requires fast reflexes and quick wits, but he’s never seen anything as insane as the texts Betty gets on her phone from this Mr. Hood. He paces the trailer and, when he can’t stand it any longer, sits down and does some homework so he won’t chew off his own arm.

His story for their newspaper is about teenage sleuths going after a mass murderer, a simple adventure on the surface but needing full attention to details and characterization. Jughead loses himself in his setting, a town where there are drive-in movie theaters, cheerleaders, and a town Jubilee.

One scene down, he writes a few notes for the last one. Jughead stretches, cracks his neck, and gets up to look for food.

As he pulls out a slice of pizza from the refrigerator, Jughead hears the loud rumble of a loud bike. He goes to the door to chew on the cold slice, one fist propped on the trailer’s frame.

Penny stands on the steps outside her flophouse, smoking a cigarette as two people climb off the back of a sick rice-burner. She flips her butt into the twilight as they take off their helmets.

Jughead stops eating, struck with the shock of recognition. The first is the piano teacher who’s Penny’s friend. Miss Grundy’s wearing tight jeans and a new leather jacket, her long hair spilling out of the helmet like hot caramel.

The second is Malachai.

Moving slowly, Jughead withdraws into his trailer and goes to the window. Carefully he raises one corner of the old curtain and stares in disbelief as Malachai propels Miss Grundy inside Penny’s home, one careful hand on the teacher’s waist like a gentleman caller with his gal in a 1940’s movie.

The three close the door. A moment later Jughead hears a pop followed by muted cheers, suggestive of champagne poured into red Solo cups.

Are they celebrating? If so, what? He’s seen glimpses of Penny’s life, and it’s nothing to make anyone pop bottles of bub.

He finishes the pizza, checks the kitchen clock, and decides he has enough time to study for Monday’s history quiz before he meets Sweet Pea. But as he goes over the events of what happened at the Battle of Little Bighorn (all bullshit – Jughead knows the real version is hidden in government files and whispered family legends) the thought of those three drinking together in the place next door makes him as jumpy as a letterman driving a '58 Edsel.

#

“I thought we’d start with the far corner.” Jughead bypasses the Zone’s gate and tracks west behind the library where he kissed Betty for the first time. “Noticed a transformer box there. There has to be some way of getting power in and out of the Zone, so I figured we could see if it’s useable at all.”

“Not the sewers, Shawshank-style?” Sweet Pea fakes a punch at Jughead’s shouder. “Actually, that’s not the worst idea I ever heard.”

“Yeah?” Against his instincts, Jughead feels a surge of hope. For the past few days he’s dreamed of fighting faceless robots large as cell towers, dark pitiless creatures intent on stomping out the people he loves. He’s woken mid-scream, mired in visions of Toni and FP being ground to hamburger under massive and mechanical metal feet.

Jughead shakes his head, willing away the night’s shadows. He’s made a rash promise to this girl he really doesn’t know, but one thing is clear: she cannot stay in the Zone.

“Huh.” They’ve reached the wall, and Sweet Pea kneels beside a squat cube sticking out of the bricks like a steel cyst. “This doesn’t look like the usual Riverdale bullshit we get on our side of town.” Not taking his eyes off the box, SP fumbles a screwdriver out of his back pocket and begins to unscrew a bolt. “Basically I’m going to break the law right now, so look away.”

Jughead snorts. “Not for the first time.”

Sweet Pea gives him a side stink-eye in response before going back to work. “It’s all analog. Guess this is due for replacement, although you’d think they’d put in state-of-the art when the suits funded this wall. I mean, it’s all dark money, right? That’s my guess, anyway. And this Hood character’s behind it all.”

“About that.” Jughead crouches next to SP. “How _did_ you know about Betty and Mr. Hood?”

“Don’t write me off, bro. I know things.” With a grunt, Sweet Pea wrestles off the cover and shines a flashlight on a tangled braid of wires inside. “This is what I’m talking about. No chips or power sources other than the ground wires.”

“Can you handle it?”

“You're kidding me, right? I keep the Wyrm’s 19th century AC running, and guess who they call when a teacher blows a fuse with the old Southside VCR? Sweet Pea, that’s who.” He stops and peers closer. “Weird.”

Jughead crowds closer to see what's so strange. SP points to a tangle of wires that are normal except for a silver clip holding them together. The thing is shaped like a triangle with elongated ends, so there are sharp lines extending like accusing fingers beyond the angles themselves. “What do you think that is?”

“No clue. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” Sweet Pea gives the thing an experimental poke with his screwdriver. A second later there’s an audible pop accompanied by a shower of sparks. A yelp is wrested from SP’s throat as he falls back on the ground, eyes wide. He’s still wielding the screwdriver upright in his hand like a stunted version of Excalibar.

With an exclamation, Jughead falls to one knee and seizes Sweet Pea’s shoulder. “You okay? Holy shit, what happened?” He waits until the kid’s eyelids flicker and breathes out a long sigh of relief until Sweet Pea leans forward, head between his knees. “Uh, you're not gonna puke, are you?”

SP seems to consider. Slowly he shakes his head. “No, I’ll be okay. That was just really weird. I only touched the thing, and I got this vivid vision of a man without a face, sitting in a room. It was like the Wizard of Oz – ‘ignore the man behind the curtain.’ Except he wasn’t a good guy.”

Jughead scrubs both hands over his face. “It could have been a freak accident, although right now I’m betting against it. Question is, what do we do now? Think there’s a way inside using the power box?”

“Possible.” Sweet Pea accepts Jughead’s arm and climbs heavily to his feet. “I’ll grab a few pictures of the wiring and see if I can figure out the circuits for a simple diagram. Don’t look so excited, it’ll be mainly guesswork.”

“You, sir, are the man.” Jughead waits as SP takes a couple of pictures, shining the flashlight inside the box. When they’ve screwed on the cover, Jughead claps Sweet Pea on the back. “I totally owe you a couple of burgers. Want to go and find a diner somewhere…”

“Hey!” A voice blasts out of the darkness. Before Jughead can move, a kid with bright red hair and a quarterback's body strides towards them. “You. Yeah, you two. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Jughead spreads his hands. “Just heading home after studying at the public library.”

“Library’s closed. It’s Sunday. And we just got an alert someone was screwing around with the power box on this side.” The redhead crosses his arms. “So I’ll ask again. What were you doing?”

Sweet Pea starts to talk, but Jughead interrupts. “Wait. You’re from the other side of the wall? From the Zone?”

A tiny flicker crosses Red’s face. “You didn’t answer my question, _and_ you lied about the library.”

Jughead measures the kid. Red has the expression of an intelligent golden retriever: pleasant but with immense strength and stubborn, misplaced loyalty. On an impulse, he blurts, “Do you know Betty Cooper?” The effect is electric. Red uncrosses his arms and steps back, as though he’s rocked by the inquiry. “Because she’s in trouble,” Jughead pursues, “but I think you already knew that.”

Red’s mouth opens. “I gotta go,” he declares.

Jughead grabs his arm. “Look, I get it. This Hood character has you all sewn up so you can’t make a move to help yourselves or each other. I’m not asking you to put yourself in danger. But Betty’s getting emotionally abused every second of every day, and I’m going to make it stop. I just need a way into the Zone, even for a few hours.”

The kid’s soft brown eyes shine under the flickering streetlight as though he’s fighting back tears. “Wish I could help,” he mutters.

With a quick shove, Red escapes. Jughead shouts and runs after him, but the guy must be an athlete. He disappears into the darkness, leaving Jughead and Sweet Pea helpless beneath the acid-yellow glow of the Southside lamps.

#

Betty isn’t at her locker on Monday morning. Jughead goes to morning classes in a cold fog, afraid he’s made things worse by talking to Red. What if she’s in trouble and Mr. Hood has decided to punish her? It would all be Jughead’s fault, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He jitters through Spanish and history class. If she doesn’t appear, he decides, he’ll make a rope ladder out of socks and climb over that damn wall.

At last it’s time for English. Jughead is out of his seat as soon as the bell rings, barreling through leather and denim to get to class. He ignores Toni’s suggestion of a smoke, waves off a Ghoulie’s offer of JJ on the cheap.

Except for SP and Fangs, the room is empty. Jughead subsides into a seat and covers his eyes. As usual, he thinks, his efforts have earned the worst possible results.

A pair of hands cover his closed eyes. “Guess who,” a soft voice says into Jughead’s ear.

He looks up to see Betty bending over him with her signature smile, and he can’t help it. Ignoring Sweet Pea’s long, slow whistle, Jughead caresses her neck. “Betty Cooper,” he says into her cheek. “You are a sight for sore eyes. And guess what? I finished your edits on the first chapter.”

“Really?” Betty grins and sits, her knee pressing his. “That means the Red and Black can go to press this week between your fiction, Toni’s pictures, and all the news articles we’ve prepped.” She leans forward and puts both hands on his arm. “Can you believe it? We’ve done so much in such a short time. You should be really proud of yourself.”

Jughead glances at her phone and raises his voice. “Will you come and check the paper supply with me?”

“But we’re doing a digital edition!”

Betty’s words are cut off as Jughead pushes back from the desk so swiftly his chair falls. Fisting her thumb, he pulls her to the hallway and cups her chin. “Do you know a tall kid with red hair?” he whispers.

She pulls back, a tiny frown puckering her brow. “Archie? Jughead, did you meet him? But how?”

“We need to talk, make some plans. Library tomorrow night,” he says, before drinking her answer in a firm kiss.

It’s all warmth and skin, with the slightest hint of tongue before she pulls back. “Jug,” Betty murmurs: a warning.

Approaching them is an unholy trinity comprised of the Southside principal, Malachai, and of all people…

Jughead hiccups with surprise and guides Betty back inside to her seat. The principal marches to the front of the room, her guest lagging behind.

She launches into a speech with no preamble. “I’m pleased to announce we have found a replacement to teach Honors English. Students, meet Miss Grundy, your new teacher.”

His heart sinking, Jughead closes his eyes and tips back his head. This is Penny’s doing, he’s certain of it. And as for Malachai, how the hell did he get involved?

The principal sweeps out of the class, and Miss Grundy produces a pile of stapled packets. “Your SAT’s are right around the corner,” she says. “I thought we could work on some prep for the next few weeks so you can get the best possible scores.”

Betty raises her hand so quickly a book falls off her desk. Without waiting to be called on, she stands up. “We all welcome you to Southside High, Miss Grundy. I’d also like to inform you of our current project, a group effort to write and publish a school newspaper. We’re really close to finishing, so could I ask you for a few hours before we start your packet? Of course we'll make sure to study for the SAT's as well, and we already got approved as an alternate method of learning.”

Miss Grundy pauses in the act of passing out papers behind Malachai’s chair. Jughead nods as she strokes his neck with her little finger - a tiny gesture, easily overlooked.

“Betty, is it? Thank you for that advice,” Miss Grundy says. “I’m sorry, but my rigorous schedule doesn’t allow any time for side projects at the present. You’ll have to disband your newspaper.”

#

At lunch, Jughead can feel Betty vibrating with fury next to him. He eats one-handed, the other arm tucked securely around her waist.

“Sorry, B Coop,” Fangs says. “English was fun for a while, but looks like we’re going back to sniffing copier fluid.”

Toni bites aggressively into a burrito. “This sucks. I was looking forward to seeing how my photo essay on tattoos came out.”

“I’m really sorry,” Jughead adds. He strokes Betty's satin skin just under her sweater, relishing their bold secrecy.

“And I’m sorry too,” Betty declares. “Sorry you all are giving in so easily. Did you really think I’d let our paper go, just like that?” Fork in the air to emphasize her point, she leans forward and spears the Serpents one by one with her direct gaze. “There’s no way I’m letting that soft-spoken witch take our hard work away from us. No. Way. Starting tomorrow, we’re going underground.”

Amazement bolts through Jughead like lightning, and he faces her. “A secret paper?”

“Why?” Toni asks. “If we’re not getting cred, why bother to do it at all?”

“For your photo essay,” Betty says. “For Juggie’s story and Sweet Pea’s poems – don’t think I didn’t hear about those, Pea – and for art. And creativity’s sake.”

“Creativity’s sake,” Toni echoes. “Okay, Coop. I’m in!”

Dimly, Jughead sees Fangs and SP bump fists. His view is filled with a golden girl, bright and brimming with purpose. His skin feels tight all of a sudden, as though a strange emotion is growing and swelling within him. It’s beautiful and savage, all at once.

Their lunch table is beside a section of chain link fencing. There are holes in the wall. The ceiling leaks, and a growing stain overhead looks distinctly like an old man’s scrotum.

But in that moment, the place is – not bad. Jughead reclaims his hold on Betty’s waist and thinks, _No, not bad at all._


	5. Chapter 5

Jughead doesn’t find it until he walks into the trailer, a tiny slip of paper folded up inside his pocket marked with a capital B. The note reads  _Southside High, tonight 8:30._ He jitterbugs to the fridge, nearly falls over an old sneaker in the middle of the floor, and gets out a cardboard container of leftover lo mein. Tonight he’s going to make it clear to Betty that he’s falling for her. If there’s the slightest chance, he’ll get her into an empty classroom and kiss her breathless.

Jughead lets his fork drop into the noodles. He’s thinking like a 16-year-old boy bursting with testosterone, but the truth is Betty isn’t just another notch on his belt. She’s in real trouble.

What can he do for her? How can he help? What if Betty escapes this Hood asshole, is reunited with her parents, and goes back to whatever My Pink Half of the Drainpipe life she came from? He might never see her again, and just the thought makes his heart stutter as he stares out of the stamp-sized window over the sink.

This despair is interrupted by a barrage of insults from Penny’s trailer. A second later FP walks inside, bangs the door, and throws a bag into the far corner. He’s already talking to himself, apparently a continuation of the argument outside. “And you don’t tell me what to do, Peabody,” FP informs the sofa. “You and your law degree and your fancy little friend don’t get to say where I go or what decisions I make in my life.”

Jughead can’t help grinning at the sight of his dad arguing with furniture. “Problems?”

“That bleached stick next door seems to think she owns Southside.”

About to turn back to his cold noodles, Jughead realizes whom FP’s talking about. He throws down his chopsticks. “Dad, did Penny say anything to you?”

“Told me I’m insignificant since she’d be making all the decisions soon.” FP stabs the door with one finger and yells, “You couldn’t lead a pack of Campfire Girls in a Fluffernutter rally!”

“Wait.” Jughead rushes to the television set and turns up the volume to Max. “Gosh, Dad, look at this great show I found today! The writing’s incredible!”

FP squints at the set where _Joanie Loves Chachi_ is playing. His jaw drops, and he swivels to look at Jughead. “What.”

“Shh.” Jughead takes his dad’s elbow, guides him to the couch, and sits. “I don’t want anyone to overhear us. Do you think Penny’s maneuvering to take over the Serpents?”

“That dusty bag of brass Brillo pads can try to start a coup, but in the end my snakes’ll stay loyal.” He frowns, runs his brows, and gestures at the flickering set. “Mind if we turn this down?”

“One second.” Jughead leans forward. “I know it seems improbable, but what if I told you she’s been hanging with Malachai? Yes, the Ghoulie piece of shit. And I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff from over the wall.”

FP gets up so suddenly the trailer shudders. “I told you not to mess with the Zone. You been disobeying my direct order?”

“Dad.” Jughead follows him into the hallway. “I’ve found out it’s not just one girl who’s being held over there. There’s also a kid called Archie, maybe a whole crew of prisoners. And the freak in charge of the whole thing is insane. You should see the texts he sends Betty.”

“Don’t you even think about going into the Zone or I’ll kick your ass into next week.” FP’s lips draw back, and his skin grows greasy with sweat. “You listen and stay away from that hellhole. I’m not talking about this again.” 

“But you could end up losing the Serpents if what I think’s about to happen actually happens…”

FP slams his bedroom door, and Jughead gives up. He’s seen FP falling-down drunk, lost in rabid fury, standing strong against rival gangs. But he’s never seen his father in the grip of fear – not until now.

#

Jughead walks to Southside High with a mental list of what he’s got on his side: Betty’s intelligence, Sweet Pea’s tech know-how, and his own stubborn nature. These fragile defenses must stand against a madman who’s holding Betty hostage and a possible treaty between Peabody and the Ghoulies.

Southside is silent when he arrives. Jughead looks around and whispers a name.

“There you are.” Betty detaches from the shadows and steps forward, raising one finger to her lips. “We can get inside here,” she whispers, indicating the back door where they first hung out together: the Serpents’ spot. Discarded cigarette butts mark the territory like a perverted elf circle.

Betty pulls a hairpin out of her ponytail and wiggles it into the lock. “What are you doing?” Jughead hisses. “Give it up, Betts. That never works.” An instant later, the lock clicks open.

The corners of her lips quirk up in a tiny smile as she turns the handle. He doesn’t say anything, just bumps her shoulder with his. Jughead feels his heart beat faster as he follows her, this slender girl who can critique Fahrenheit 451 and pick a lock.

Inside Southside High is a maze of darkness and faded graffiti. A far-away janitor whistles _Oh my darling Clementine, you are lost and gone forever_. “This way,” Betty whispers in Jughead’s ear. She heads to the staircase leading down the basement, filled with the intestinal loops of heat ducts and ancient wiring. Jughead wrinkles his nose at the smell, a miasma of leaky pipes and crumbling wallboard. After they turn a few more corners,  _Clementine_  fades away.

Betty stops at the far end of the cellar, jimmies another lock, and opens a door into a closet Jughead’s never seen. They’re in the belly of the school, a hidden corner no one has visited in years – or so it seems from the dust on the old files piled up and sloping like a pessimist’s spine.

Betty pushes the precipitous stack. Instantly papers cascade in a waterfall around her feet, revealing a dark rectangle on the far wall of the closet.

The door swings open under her touch. A dark passage lies beyond it, lined with bricks and crumbling mortar. Betty winks at him, disappears into the darkness, and Jughead hurries to follow her. “Where are we?” he demands. “Did you know about this place?”

She doesn’t say anything, just points ahead into the darkness. A second later her phone clicks onto a flashlight app, highlighting the tunnel they’re in.

It’s shorter than Jughead expected, ending at another door painted blue with gold trim. It looks incongruously cheerful in that underground space, like a balloon adrift in a morgue.

“Where are we going?” Jughead whispers.

“A secret passage I discovered on the Zone mainframe while I was poking around last night…” Betty stops and shakes her head. “I’ll show you later.”

For years Jughead has lived with the fact of the wall, and now he's about to see what lay on the other side. He searches for something philosophical to say, but all he can come up with is, “Gosh.”

Betty’s fingers splay over the doorknob. “Please tell me to fuck off and go home where you can be safe. Please,” she repeats.

For one surreal second, he feels as though he’s looking at two girls in the same body: one who wants him to follow her, and the other who warns him with tears in her eyes to run away. The thought strikes him that he really should return to Southside where a host of regulars is filing into the Wyrm for free hot dogs and dollar beers. Later he and Sweet Pea could pick up sodas at the bodega.

And walk away from Betty when she’s in such trouble? Impossible. Jughead makes a soft sound in his throat, crowds up behind her, and follows her into the Zone.

#

He’s expected – what, exactly? Maybe a grungy dystopia from the sets of American Horror Story or an H.R. Giger-inspired tech inferno. After Mr. Hood’s texts, Jughead wouldn’t be surprised if he had to kick infernal pinheads and Scream masks out of the way to get to the log ladies and sewer balloons.

The place inside the wall is a suburban paradise.

If Southside is graffiti and trailer parks, the Zone is a pastel quilt of cosy homes. The dark tunnel emerges from the roots of an oak that actually holds a treehouse in its leafy branches.

“I live there.” Betty points to the house on the left, the yellow one with the porch. “Archie’s next door – his dad built the treehouse before he got…”

“Don’t we have to whisper?” Jughead asks. “What about You Know Who?”

“Hood's listening app goes open-loop in the Zone.” With a sad smile, Betty pokes her phone and stashes it in the back pocket of her plaid skirt. “Ironic, don’t you think?”

“Irony with a heavy dash of tragedy.” On the corner of Betty’s street, Jughead looks up at the street sign, which is marked Elm Street. He smacks his forehead and adds, “I get it! You live in a beautiful cage with references to classic horror movies. Now the atmospheric setting’s sorted, we just need to find your parents and plot an escape.”

He peers at the houses which stand in a squared-off ring around a large forested park and adds, “That is, an escape plan for an entire town. Uh, where’s this toy factory I’ve heard so much about? And the asylum?”

Under the streetlight, which is shaped like a quaint Victorian lamp, Betty’s eyes sparkle. “Do you want me to tell you, or are you going to figure it out yourself? It’s not exactly hard.”

“Ooh.” He gives her a side glance. “An enigma, huh? I think I can narrow it down to Archie’s tree house or somewhere in that massive clump of pines in the middle of park.”

She nods. “The one with two dark building peeking over the tree line?”

“Sweet.” Jughead holds out one arm. “Madam, shall we?”

Betty sobers. “We can’t. There’s no way to get inside the factory or the asylum. Don’t think we haven’t tried. Archie, V and I all came up with plenty of plans, none of which worked.”

“Wait. Who’s V now?”

“Veronica. One of the prisoners here. We butted heads at first, but now she and Arch are my best friends.”

Jughead is struck by the fact that he knows so little about her. Essentially, Betty is still a mystery, one he certainly wants to solve when there’s time. “How many people live here?” he whispers.

“Eleven kids. One in each house.”

“You each have a house? All of these Leave It to Beaver homes were built for hormonal teenagers?” He indicates the ring of homes, counts them quickly. "Wait, there are twelve houses."

"The last one is empty."

Jughead frowns. “It doesn’t make sense. Is this guy a millionaire?” A thought grips him, and he sucks in his breath. “Betty, he wasn’t – he didn’t…does he make you…”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’ve never even seen him in person or been in the same room. We just stay in our houses, go to the park, do homework. Some days we get together at Archie's place. And a few weeks ago, I got clearance to go to Southside.”

Jughead looks up at Archie’s house and sees the kid’s silhouette against the window, moving as he writes at a desk. “Who lives there?” he asks, pointing at the house on the other side of Betty’s place.

“Veronica. And the next one is Josie McCoy. Moose Mason, Chuck Clayton. The others live around the corner.” Each window she points to shows the same view, the silhouette of a kid writing at a window. As Jughead watches, they all turn a page in perfect sync. That’s when it strikes him. This place is the creepier version of the town in A Wrinkle in Time, where all the inhabitants live the same way in a glorified icing-sugar prison.

“Do you want to see inside?” Betty’s question breaks into his thoughts.

“Hell yeah I do.” Jughead follows her onto the porch, which actually has a swing hanging from its painted beams.

The door swings open under her touch. Inside there’s yellow wallpaper, cream carpets, an overstuffed couch the color of sea-glass, a bubbling fishtank. Someone has put out a bowl of foil-wrapped candies on a low table, and the windowsill is lined with flourishing plants. An old-fashioned dial phone hangs on the wall beside a staircase with wood spindles.

Thing is, Jughead recognizes the furniture, the paint, the carpets. After his mother left with Jellybean, Jughead had vivid dreams of a home just like this. He’s heard the same clock ticking in an unseen kitchen, smelled the fresh lemon polish, felt how soft the sofa cushions are when he sits next to Betty.

He knows that if he unwraps one of the sweets in the bowl, it will be almond rocca. Jughead can almost taste the toffee and chocolate on his tongue.

Upstairs, he bets, there’s a small bedroom with fresh white sheets and a tabby asleep on one corner of the quilt like a furry button. The window opens with a brass catch to let in the breeze, and there’s a seat below it that holds two rows of well-read, much beloved books. The one on the end is Jane Eyre, its title engraved on the red leather spine.

The only thing Jughead hasn’t seen in his dream is the ugly television in Betty's front room, an old-fashioned one with a wood cabinet and yellowed plastic dials. In fact, it's the same one FP keeps in their trailer.

“Penny?” Betty asks.

Jughead jolts back to the present. “What about Penny?”

“I meant for your thoughts.” She sits, close to him on the little couch. Jughead has seen her in a library, school, and the ugly little basement closet: all public places, never in private. Under the mellow light from a lamp made from a bottle of shells he can see a tiny scar on her forehead and one mole under the left corner of her mouth.

She's radiant.

“Now we can talk,” Betty whispers.

Talking is suddenly the last thing on Jughead’s mind. Helplessly he reaches for her waist. “You know I’ll do what it takes, you know I will,” he declares, “but I’m having you when this is all over.”

His name murmured in his hair, barely audible. “Run away from me,” Betty says. “Run away right now.”

“No.” Jughead tips up her face and kisses her, drowning in the fresh scent of her clean, young skin. He feels her working on the buttons of his shirt, feels the worn flannel slip off his shoulders and onto the floor, feels the chill of stale air on his flesh. Vaguely he realizes they’ve collapsed back on the couch with him on top, and oh Lord he could do it right here. It would be a firework cadenza that might blow up the entire Zone.

Jughead feels he's underwater, sinking below broken ice into a creamy dream of sweaters and ponytails. Betty’s breast is first soft and then peaked, delicious. He wants to sink his teeth in her. He wants to escape on his motorcycle into infinity with her riding behind him.

Lick into her mouth, blow softly in the shell of her ear. Run his thumb up her inner thigh. Pull her flimsy top up over her head, fall onto her, bite the beautiful shape of Betty’s shoulders.

“Jug,” Betty says. “Jug.”

With a supreme act of iron will he manages to stop, gasping against her neck. “Sorry,” Jughead whispers. His breath heaves as he fights to get control. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Have you ever?” Betty asks. "Ever - you know?"

He sits up and fights to get his breathing under control. “My first time was with a barmaid from the Wyrm. Pretty sure some of the Serpents talked her into it as a birthday present for FP's kid. I was insatiable, grabbed everything I could, afraid it would get taken away from me, you know?  I guess you could say I learned a lot that night. But that was nothing compared to what just happened on this couch. Jesus. It’s going to be so good when we finally get our chance, Baby Girl.”

“Guess we have a lot to do first.” Her voice is thick with unshed tears, and Jughead wonders what she’s thinking.

“Don’t you dare.” Jughead sits up, draws Betty onto his lap, and nudges an escaped curl off her forehead. “I told you I’m coming for you, and I meant it. Even if everyone says it’s ‘forbidden’ and a ‘bad idea’ and I need to ‘forget it.’”

“Who said that?”

“My dad. I hoped to get him onto our side so we could ride into the Zone with The Serpents, which would give me some serious firepower. But you should have seen him when I brought it up. You never think of your dad being scared, right? But he looked terrified.”

Betty faces him, astride his thighs. Jughead tries not to think about their position, the flimsy bands of fabric between them. “He’s right,” she tells him. “Your dad’s right.”

He’s so lost in lust that the words don’t register for a minute. When they do, he rears back and clonks his head on the yellow wallpaper. “Ow,” he says absently. “But Betts, I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life as I am of helping you. That Hood guy tortures you, day after day, every minute. How do you read all those insane texts and stay strong? And your family…”

“There’s your answer.” Betty swabs her eyes quickly with a tissue she produces from a hidden pocket. “That’s how I keep going. My sister was 18 when she was taken, so pretty and smart but vulnerable too. And my mom was a tough cookie but would do anything for us. Anything. As for Dad – he taught me how to change my oil, take car of a flat, and strip down an engine.”

“Where are they?” Jughead asks. “Do you have any idea?”

Her lips tremble, and she moves away from him to tighten her ponytail.. Chilled at the lack of contact, he tries to put one arm around her waist as Betty stands and moves out of reach. “Your dad’s right,” she whispers. “You should leave and forget all this ever happened. Last chance, and I – I can’t tell you how much I wish you’d take it.”

“No.”

“Please.”

He considers. “Well, I probably do need to get home soon. That’s just temporary, though. I’m not leaving you - not now, not ever.”

Betty covers her face with both hands. Jughead is just able to hear her answer, “I wish that could be true.”

Once again he gets the feeling that there are two versions of Betty: one who’s strong and who wants to run an underground newspaper, and the other who is desperate. The sensation is overwhelming, as if Jughead faces a dichotomy. All night Betty has been acting strangely, not at all what he expected. The girl he’s come to know would have initiated an intense hunt for clues, headed straight to the sinister buildings in the center of the park, and damn the consequences.

Unless her family’s lives are on the line, and she’s been forced to do something as a result.

With a grunt, Jughead rocks back as though he’s just taken a punch. “No.” He backs towards the door to her little house, the loveliest and warmest home he’s ever seen, and Betty’s eyes pool with unshed tears. “He – that’s why Hood let you come to Southside in the first place. I’ve been wondering why, and now I see it.”

“Jug,” she pleads.

“You were there to recruit. To recruit _me_. For the Zone, right? For that final house? It needs inhabitants, right? How many, Betty? Sweet Pea, Toni, Fangs? And of course the biggest prize of all, FP’s son. I was such an easy target, so ready to fall for you.”

“He was going to torture Polly.” With a quick gesture he shakes off her fingers. A sick feeling of betrayal burns his throat, and for a moment he’s afraid he might spew up his guts all over the soft rugs and painted walls. “Please, just let me explain,” Betty begs.

Even though he’s never been more furious at anyone, Jughead yearns for her touch. That, at least, hasn’t changed.

But the old television sputters with static. For one moment a horrifying image appears, ‘a man without a face.’ He has holes for eyes, a blur for a mouth.

It’s Mr. Hood.

Jughead chokes, pushes Betty away, and stumbles through the door. Ignoring her shouts to come back, to please just listen, Jughead runs to the tree where the blue and gold door is. Around him, the Zone vibrates with normality: streetlights, lovely homes, beautiful park. But the entire place hides a dreadful reality. He’s afraid a faceless thing will emerge from the treehouse or jump out at him from a porch swing, and hot breath whistles in his chest.

By some miracle, the handle turns. Jughead wrenches open the door, plunges into the brick-lined tunnel, and dashes down the inked interior with one hand on the wall for support.

A tiny rectangle of light marks the closet at the other end. Jughead’s side is speared by cramp, his feet are clumsy, and several times he nearly trips and goes down.

With a final burst of terror, he falls into the tiny basement closet and slams the mysterious door shut. Leaning against it, Jughead heaves and gulps for breath.

His phone buzzes, making him jump. The screen blazes with a text: _Juggie, please. I never would have done it, but Polly is…_

Delete.

Block.

The basement is dark. Upstairs, the same janitor still whistles Clementine.

By the time Jughead makes it outside to the street, he’s boiling. FP has been right from the start. All this effort towards rescuing one girl, and she’s revealed herself as manipulating, calculating, cold…

No. Not cold. Jughead still can feel the heat of her mouth, the silk of her skin. He’s been with a lot of women, and he can tell when a chick is in the moment. If anything, Betty was just as hot for him as he was for her on that couch.

He stops and makes a decision. The next day in school he’ll pick up the first available female and treat her to an epic make-out right in front of Betty. It’s all too easy to imagine her reaction – the way her eyes will go soft with hurt, how her lips will tremble. Should he say something like, “Too bad, you could have had all this but you blew it?”

Better to just laugh and turn away.

Lost in these highly unsatisfactory thoughts, Jughead slowly becomes aware of a small car with duct tape on a rear fender following him. He gasps and feels for his switchblade, afraid that the driver will have no face.

One window rolls down. “Hey, Jughead,” Geraldine Grundy calls. “Do you need a ride?”


	6. Chapter 6

Ignoring Betty and everyone else, Jughead slouches into class. He slumps into the seat beside Toni and puts his head down on the desk.

“What’s up with you?” she whispers.

“Nothing. Fuck off.”

Miss Grundy walks into the room, making him shudder. When he thinks of the night before, it makes him physically ill. There are memories of an overwhelming hunger, his own anger translated into lust, a sloppy confusion of hands and tongues.

And the slam of her car door when he raced into FP’s trailer, furious with Betty, Miss Grundy, and himself.

“Take out your vocabulary texts and start the exercises on page 121,” Grundy tells the class. Jughead groans, sits up, and takes out the mind-numbing workbook, which manages the impossible task of turning words into pure boredom.

Next to him, Toni blows out an elaborate sigh and settles down to do her work. He can feel Betty’s presence behind him, even though she doesn’t make a sound.

Sucking his tongue, Jughead starts on a set of fill-in-the blanks and multiple choice. When he’s halfway through, he feels a touch: Grundy’s little finger on his neck, her way of checking in.

Last night, Jughead sees in that moment, is the worst mistake he's ever made. The only good thing about it is it didn’t go too far. Just the thought of actual sex with the woman makes him want to gag.

Still, when Grundy moves away to talk to Malachai in a low and urgent voice, Jughead shudders and rubs her touch off the back of his neck. He consoles himself with a plan that he’ll make it clear to her that he’s done. Last night was a one-off, and it’s never happening again.

#

Half a turkey sub, open bag of chips, broken grocery cookies. Small thermos of rice and beans, an apple with a bite out of one side.

A neat pile of assembled and stapled papers plops like a grounded comet into the Serpents' circle of lunches. “Red & Gold,” Betty announces. “Thought you might like a look.” She doesn’t wait for a response, just turns on one heel and strides to an empty table where she sits, back straight as a lightning bolt from Zeus. Jughead scowls, but Fangs and Sweet Pea select their copies and immediately start to flip through the limp pages.

“Hey, your photo essay looks great,” Pea tells Toni. “Ooh, there’s my poem. Fangs, look, your recipes. And – what the hell? Someone finished that article about the missing 750,000 dollars from the Southside budget.”

“Really?” Toni drops her sandwich and gets on both knees in her seat to see. “There’s no byline. Who wrote this? Was it you, Jug? Someone has done a fuck-ton of research – and they say they can prove the former financial manager took off with the cash. No way.”

“Your chapter story, dude.” A grinning Fangs flutters the paper right into Jughead’s face. “That’s what I’m talking about! I'm reading this tonight after work.”

“There’s a story about the Zone,” Pea says in a quieter voice. “Look, no name on that article, either. Who the hell do you think wrote it?”

“Who do you think?” Jughead throttles the neck of his sack lunch. For once in his life, he’s lost his appetite. “My educated guess is it was that blonde bitch sitting by herself over there.”

Toni and Pea exchange a look. “Jughead,” Toni says. “She’s not alone.”

“What?” His scowl deepens when he turns sand sees Malachai standing next to Betty’s seat, wearing a wide and infuriating grin. She doesn’t smile in return.

“This shit’s getting shut down right now.” Jughead gets up so suddenly his chair falls back with a loud clonk, making several curious students eye him up and snicker. He ignores them, strides to Betty’s table, and wedges himself between her and Malachai. “Get the hell out of here,” he tells the kid in a conversational tone.

“You know what? I’ve ‘bout had it with your bullshit,” Mal starts heatedly.

“Let me talk to Jughead - alone.” Betty’s voice is pleasant but implacably firm.

Mal backs away, muttering how he’s got stuff to do anyway, and when he’s gone Jughead props his butt on the corner of her table. “What are you doing?” he demands. “The papers, Malachai just now – not to mention what went down last night.”

“Can I just show you one thing? And then you can leave and never talk to me again if you want.” Betty’s face is pale, her lips tremble slightly, but her gaze never wavers.

He nods, and she scrolls through pictures on her phone. Her finger taps one to reveal the picture of a pretty blonde wearing a flowered headband who vaguely resembles Betty.

The girl is also very pregnant.

“Polly,” Betty says. “My sister. She’s due in a few weeks – met a boy who’s also being held in the Zone. I would never have agreed to do what I did otherwise. And by the way, she's expecting twins.” She blinks rapidly. “Not that it’s an excuse, but I thought you might feel a bit better if you knew.”

Jughead slumps into the chair. “I would have gone and helped you,” he says quietly. “All you had to do was ask. I’d have done anything, Baby Girl. Anything.”

She clicks off the phone. “I had to get someone into the Zone last night. He told me if I didn’t… well. It gave me a few hours to get through to Hood and beg for Polly’s release.”

He frowns. “Wait, you mean your sister is no longer there?”

For the first time that day, Betty’s eyes shine with victory. “She’s escaped to a safe place on a farm we used to visit. And I think I can get the rest of the kids out this week – maybe the parents too - without compromising you or your friends.”

“But…Isn’t Big Brother listening right now?” Jughead points to a spool of texts on her hpone, long lines of silent nightmares:

NO NO NO NO

YOU ARE DEAD YOU ARE DEAD YOU ARE DEAD

YOU ARE MINE JUST MINE BETTY MINE

YOU ARE MY PRETTY PRETTY PRETTY PRETTY CORPSE AND I WILL LAY YOU OUT AND EMBALM YOU JUST FOR MY TOUCH

“Exactly.” Deliberately, Betty picks up the phone and brings it to her lips. “Did you hear that, Hood?” she says into the speaker. “Catch everything I just said? Good. I’m sick of you, sick of your nonsense. This ends _now_.”

Betty Cooper stands and holds up her phone. Deliberately she drops it on the cafeteria floor and smashes her heel down on it again and again until it’s a mass of glass and plastic on the floor.

The cafeteria at Southside is an echo chamber, a huge room made of concrete. When it’s filled to capacity with students the place is deafening. But now, for the first time, Jughead hears nothing but silence in the cafeteria as everyone turns to gawk at Betty and what she’s done.

With the nonchalance of a duchess, she dusts off her mary jane with one sweater sleeve and picks up her books. Jughead finds he’s on his feet as well, both hands on her trim waist. “Won’t he come for you tonight?” he murmurs.

Her chin tips up. “I don’t care.”

He remembers the face that appeared on the television in Betty’s house the previous night and represses a shiver. “What if he hurts you?”

“Juggie, he’s been hurting me for the past two years.”

Her waist is warm under his tightening grip. “The guy is insane.”

For one moment, Betty’s lips tremble. “I don’t have another choice.”

He’s about to spew a dozen ridiculous plans: _Run away with me, Let me take out this guy, Let’s go public with this nonsense._ None of them are doable. But she can’t go ahead with her idea, inviting blood or more bruises or worse. Jughead shakes with anger at the very thought.

About to reach for her, he’s interrupted by a touch on his neck and an insidious voice. “I need to speak with you for one moment,” Geraldine Grundy murmurs with hideous intimacy. It’s as if the woman wants the entire school to realize what she and Jughead have done.

Certainly, one person picks up on it right away. Betty’s eyes widen, she rocks back as if dealt a slap, and her lips part.

Ignoring Miss Grundy, Jughead reaches for Betty. “Wait,” he says. “Don’t – just wait.” His wards are too late. She’s grabbed her bag and hurried out of the cafeteria before he can stop her.

“Oh dear,” Grundy says. “I do hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.” She wears a cardigan with baggy tweed, hair knotted carelessly at her neck, wide glasses perched on the end of her nose.

Only those hot eyes betray what she truly is.

Jughead’s anger sluices through his veins like boiling water. Gritting his teeth, he jerks his head at the hallway and strides outside of the cafeteria, certain his friends are watching and snickering at his plight. The entire affair is reminiscent of an 80’s drive-in movie.

Once they're out of sight of the curious crowd, he rounds on Grundy. “Last night was the stupidest thing I've ever done, and that's saying something,” he chokes. “Just so we’re clear, it’s never going to happen again, not with you. Ever. So just go and grade papers or whatever it is you do when you’re not picking up students and molesting them.”

Her mouth quirks with sad humor. “Of course. My only excuse is my nightly medication. I really shouldn’t have been driving, let alone offering you a ride. I hope you’ll accept my sincerest apologies, Mr. Jones.”

Relief makes him gulp air, feeling like a fish that’s slid back into the water off a barbed hook. “Okay, cool. Like I said, I guess we all make mistakes.” Jughead peers over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of Betty. “So listen, I have to get going…”

Grundy’s long lashes flutter over her curious eyes, green ringed with deep blue. “The only problem is I might have said something to Penny, and of course we both know she has quite a temper. Not to mention poor Mal. I’m afraid there might be a bit of a fuss over the whole affair.”

 _For fuck’s sake._ Jughead collapses against the lockers and curses his urge for vengeance the night before. “I’ll take care of Malachai,” he hisses. “You tell Peabody to back off and forget this ever happened. Got it?”

“Well.” Her voice is that of a young girl’s, bell-like with innocence and sincerity. Jughead thinks, briefly, that he’s never hated anyone so much. “I’ll do my best.”

#

Although he searches the halls and classrooms for the rest of the afternoon, Jughead can’t find Betty. She’s not by her locker or in the gym at the end of the day. Even when the bell rings and the halls of Southside High vomit kids onto the street, there’s no sign of her when the dreary bus to the Zone arrives.

Cursing Grundy, Jughead has to resist slamming his forehead into a wall with frustration. The entire situation is sliding out of his control, as if he ever had any to start. A bolt of hope shoots through him when he remembers the Serpents’ turf, and he heads behind the school to look for her there. The spot is dotted with a triangle of shadows: Fangs, Pea, and Toni.

When Jughead arrives, Pea hollers at him from across the lawn. “Yo, jackass! The Red & Black is the shit, even better than what we thought. Look at this right here.” The kid shuffles through large floppy pages of newsprint, folds them at an awkward angle, and thrusts the paper under Jughead’s nose.

 _Small-Town Secrets at the Southside,_ blazes a headline over a smaller subtitle: _Hidden Horrors Behind the Wall._

A long and scrupulously written report on the Zone is underneath. Although there’s no byline, Jughead knows exactly who the author is, made plain from the clear style and precise details in the article.

The first few paragraphs describe the Zone he saw the night before with Betty – all the houses and those mysterious buildings within the park. The author has drawn a neat map of the district in the middle of the article. The only section missing is the secret passage Betty showed him the night before.

Nausea blooms in his core, and he crumples the paper in his fists. “Jesus, no one can see this. If this guy catches her – oh my God.” A sudden decision makes him spin to face Toni. “Topaz. We have to sweep the school for the other copies and burn them behind my dad’s trailer tonight, or it could mean real trouble.”

Toni’s beautiful skin pleats in a frown. “You don’t get it. This story has already hit the darknet and spread like a plague. As editor of the Red & Black, I’ve already gotten calls from the Post. _And_ the Times.”

Jughead swears, and he throws the newspaper on the ground. “Make something up, Jesus. Say it was a piece of fiction we come up with to sell papers at a quarter a pop.”

She shakes her head. “Too late. All the victims named in this article? They’ve been missing for a while, and everyone wants to know what’s happened to them.” Toni waves off an offered cigarette from Fangs and folds her arms. “A whole slew of reporters are on their way, Jughead. The Zone is toast.”


	7. Chapter 7

Jughead knows that attempted entry through the main artery into the Zone is useless. Even from Sunnyside he can hear the sirens, see the searchlights slice the darkening sky like scalpels. Instead, he pulls everything out of his messenger bag and loads it up with waters, a half-sleeve of crackers, and a claw hammer. It’s the most lethal thing he can come up with at short notice, other than his switchblade.

As he locks the door behind him, he’s already calling Sweet Pea. “Meet me at school,” Jughead says. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll get us inside. There’s a way into the Zone to find Betty, but you can’t tell anyone.”

“Why do we care about this girl again?” Sweet Pea sounds exasperated. “If you think about it, she’s a stranger. I mean, if you’re going to hook up that’s cool and all, but she just unleashed a boatload of shit on Southside that we didn’t need. Strangers all over the place, heavy traffic outside the Bodega, plus cops out the bung. I mean there is a literal blue wave out there.”

“If you recall, she also found the missing money for the high school and kept that paper going when we were all ready to give up. She’s – I know she’s not perfect, but neither am I, far from it in fact. With you or without you, I’m going in to get her.” As he speaks, Jughead climbs onto his bike and revs, shutting off Pea's snippy comeback with one thumb. He’s wasted enough time already.

#

Sweet Pea flags him at the corner, running into the street and waving long arms above his head. “You’re fucked,” he hisses when Jughead pulls off the helmet to ask what the hell is going on. “Not only is the school overrun with police, there are government agents at every entrance. You know, the kinds with ear wires who talk into their jacket lapels? I’m not screwing around with them. We’re out of here – at least, I am, and you are too if you have any brain cells left.”

“Every entrance?” Jughead grins.

Seconds tick by, and finally Pea’s face splits in an answering grin. Months ago they snuck in to steal a gym t-shirt for Toni, since she wanted to try out for cheerleading and was told she had to have one in order to get on the team. Fangs found a sunken window leading into a chained-off section of the gym, and Toni arrived ready to cheer the next day in a brand new XL tee that looked like a mini-dress on her. “All we could grab with short notice,” Jughead had explained.

“Think any of the government types are over there?” Pea’s already moving towards the Southside annex, a concrete pimple accessible only through the ruined bleachers around the weed-choked football field.

“Don’t know.” Jughead tries not to breathe. The old stands stink like garbage juice and bus urinals. Once, FP said, there were crowds of fans who came out to watch the stellar Southside football team, now it’s a haven for drugs and meaningless hook-ups.

Bending over so they won't be seen, the two run towards the Annex underneath the rusting underbelly of the stands. As they get close, Jughead shoots out his arm and fists Pea’s jacket. There’s an agent standing by the padlocked door, his back to them as he scrolls through his phone screen.

Pea nudges Jughead, mimes picking up a rock and throwing it. Not sure of what will happen, Jughead just shrugs. It’s the oldest trick in the book, right? No Matrix agent would fall for it.

As if in slow motion, Jughead watches Pea palm a used beer can, the closest thing to a rock Southside can offer. He pitches the crumpled tin into the bleacher seats and crouches down, hiding when the thing hits the top with a weak Ping!

His jaw drops when the agent actually puts away his phone, turns, and heads off towards the source of the sound. Pea turns to Jughead, mouthing _It actually worked can you believe that shit?_

No time to gloat. Jughead’s already running to the side of the annex. There’s a nasty moment when the window they use to get in sticks, and Jughead risks a kick to the side sash. It bends open with a groan, giving them direct entry.

Jughead spelunks inside, lands on the side of his Converse, and waits for Pea. The bigger kid finally squeezes in, closes the sash, and punches Jughead’s shoulder. “Can you believe that shit? Imma going to agent school when we get out of here. They’re dumb as sacks of wet mice, yo.”

“Shh,” Jughead cautions. “They might be in here.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

Still hunched over, they run to the padlocked section that leads to the rest of Southside. Two quick turns of his switchblade, and Jughead picks the lock. Not waiting, he sprints to the dark staircase leading to the basement, Pea breathing down his neck.

When they reach the cellar, Jughead stops. The entire place is motionless as a grave, not even the mournful whistled Clementine to break the dust and gloom. “Oh, this is simply a blast,” Pea mutters. “I haven’t had so much fun since that Tupperware ‘n’ torture convention in '72.”

Jughead smacks him and heads towards the tiny storage room. It’s still in disarray, books splayed on the stained linoleum tiles like shy nuns. He picks his way to the door, which of course is locked, and turns to Sweet Pea.

“Okay. We’re going to have to bust this open. Ready?”

Pea grunts and counts to three. Together they kick the door, and it bursts open in a shower of cheap, splintered wood. “Nice,” Jughead grins. “Uh, I have no idea what I’m doing from this point onward, by the way.”

Rolling his neck, Pea struts into the dark passage. “Sounds perfect.”

#

They emerge from the tunnel into a crimson evening inside the Zone. Several ambulances idle by the exit but, as Jughead watches, the first one turns and drives out. It’s followed by the others in a slow progression, until no one is left but themselves.

“This is the Zone, huh?” Pea looks around. “Always thought it would have a more Insidious vibe.”

“Right? Me too, but it’s like Norman Rockwell met Bob Ross in here.” Jughead’s voice trails off. Above the clouds reflect the setting sun in shades of blood. A girl stands in front of the Zone's park, dressed in blue so she stands out against the sky.

Like a magnet, Jughead is helplessly drawn forward. He walks up to Betty, but before he can tap her on the shoulder, she says his name. “They all got out,” Betty adds. “Even Reggie, although he was truly a pain in the ass right to the very end. We did it – we got them all out.”

Gritting his teeth, Jughead pulls her around to face him. “I had nothing to do with it. You set it all up, right? Was this your plan all along – even when you started that newspaper?”

Tipped up to his, Betty’s face is scattered with the tiny golden freckles. It makes her human, all of a sudden, and desire rushes through him. He’s weak with it.

“I’m not that devious,” Betty laughs. “The Red and Black did come in handy, I’ll admit, but I honestly just thought it would be fun to work with you and the other kids.”

“Standing right here, not invisible.” Sweet Pea crosses his arms and jerks his chin at Betty. “This is the Zone, huh? You lived here? Pretty nice.”

“I didn’t live here. I existed, along with Veronica, Archie, and the rest. But that’s all over.” Betty swivels to face the park in the center, and Jughead can’t help hugging her from behind to feel the comfort of her warmth next to his chest. “The article about the Zone hit even harder than I expected. Reporters swarmed here before school was even out, chasing the police and EMT’s.”

“Why didn’t you go?” The question is torn from him, because Jughead’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“We both knew this was a one-way ride.” Betty smiles sadly and arches to wrap her arm around his neck. “Could we pretend, just for one minute, that everything’s going to be okay? That you’ll ask me to a dance called the Spring Fling or the Snow Frolic, and I’ll get a new dress, and we’ll walk onto the dance floor together? And there’ll be corny stuff like corsages and mirror-balls?”

Sweet Pea barks out a harsh laugh. “We don’t have a mirror-ball in Southside. Even if one existed, it would get shot down in three minutes.”

A speculative look comes into Betty’s eyes, and Jughead shakes her elbow. “Oh, no you don’t start your scheming, Cooper. You’re coming with me. The passage is open, baby girl, and we busted down the basement door. All you have to do is take my hand and come with me and Pea, right now. I told you I’d come for you, right? And here I am, ready to whisk you away. You’ll be safe, Betty, Betty please…”

His words trail off as she shakes her head. “He wants to see me, one last time. It was the key to getting the others out. Don’t make – don’t make me – don’t tempt me, Jughead. It would be too easy to turn back now, and I just can’t. Please. I know I don’t deserve it, but if you could forget I betrayed you and remember me from another world, the one in which we met in Algebra and you walked me home and invited to that dance. Could we pretend it went that way?”

“We can make it,” Jughead insists.

“You know, I’m just going to wait over there.” Pea waves vaguely at a small building, which looks like a garden shed.

“Be careful. It’s filled with snakes,” Betty says.

“Snakes?” Both Serpents turn to look at the shed. It looks perfectly normal, kitschy even, the kind that has miniature window boxes filled with fake flowers. In a normal world the cheap little house would be filled with boxes of books or old gardening tools.

“Which kind of snakes?” Pea scratches the back of his neck. “Not that I’m scared, I just – woah.”

Jughead turns back around to where Betty was standing. She’s gone, completely disappeared. The trees might as well have swallowed her alive.

#

The woods around the Zone's park seem ancient and almost biological, as if walking through dendrites and synapses of a giant nervous system. As the boys plunge deeper into the gloom, the branches interlock overhead to hide the last of the bloody sunset. Pea pulls out a cigarette lighter and flicks the wheel to highlight an overgrown path, just visible under lumps of moss and capillaries of vines. It leads forward, straight into the fleshy trees.

There is no sign of Betty.

The undergrowth makes their progress completely silent. Jughead feels like he’s walking in a dream or on another planet. It would be intoxicating if Betty were with them. He’s certain she would love this, and he can picture her poking her nose around every tree trunk or snapping pictures of the scuffs in the moss.

“Scuffs,” he whispers to Sweet Pea. “Look, someone definitely came this way earlier. We’re on the right track.”

Pea bends to look and catches the toe of his boot on a stone. Without time to cry out, he pitches forward and rebounds on something hidden by swaths of ivy. He covers his face with both hands and breaks his silence with a long series of Fucks used in every possible grammatical iteration and some Jughead has never heard, such as ‘fuckish’. “Owie-ouch,” Pea concludes, and glares at the leafy barrier before sobering and peering closer. “Hey, look at this. There’s stuff under here that’s electrically charged.”

“Stuff?”

Without answering, Sweet Pea begins to pull back the tangles of ivy, and Jughead joins when he sees that there are stones underneath – no, bricks. And metal. And a gate. And in the center there’s a triangle with extended ends, pointing like accusing fingers into the dark corners of the woods.

“Eureka.” Jughead points to the triangle. “We’ve seen this before.”

“Don’t touch it,” Sweet Pea warns grimly. “It packs one hell of a punch.”

Crouching down, Jughead examines the gate. It looks as old as the forest they’re in, as if this place stood there for countless centuries just waiting for a golden girl and the leather-clad weirdo who just can’t seem to be able to stop following her around.

Through the heavy bars, two massive buildings are visible. One has no sign, although the other bears a space and five dour letters: _ S Y L U M. Jughead reaches for the metal to help him, climb, but Sweet Pea fists his jacket and yanks him back. “You kidding me right now? The tiny switch in the transformer flattened me, and this gate is huge.”

“You think it’s wired?”

“I already said.” Sweet Pea indicates a flat panel near the hinge. “If we touch that thing, we’re toast.”

Frustration races through Jughead’s veins, making his lungs hurt. He cups both hands and, ignoring Sweet Pea’s hiss of warning, shouts Betty once, twice, again and again until he’s hoarse. “Pea,” he coughs, exhausted by the effort. “You gotta get back to that transformer and disable the box. If they both have the same mark, then they have to be connected.”

“No way. It zapped me last time, and all I did was poke the bitch with a flathead.”

“Use insulation.” Jughead ignores Pea’s protests that he doesn’t carry pairs of rubber gloves like some mass-murderer. In desperation, he pulls off the old, worn beanie from his head and holds it out – all he has left of Jellybean when Gladys left. “Take this. Just try. Please, Pea. Please.”

After a long litany of protests and groans, Pea grabs the hat and strides back into the woods the way they came. More Fucks float back to Jughead on the evening air, punctuated with a few Dicks.

Once Sweet Pea is gone, the silence floods back along with darkness thick as soup. Feeling like a sour version of Sweet Pea, he shouts, “Betty! Cooper, damn it!” One of the windows in what must be the old toy factory flickers with light so quickly Jughead can’t be sure he saw it. Otherwise, there’s no response.

Exhausted, Jughead slumps on the ground and leans against the scarred brick wall. There’s nothing else he can do, except wait – and for what? There's no guarantee that Sweet Pea will be able to disable the transformer armed with nothing more than an old hat, and even if he does, perhaps there’s no connection to the gate other than the demonic symbol.

Overhead, the gnarled tree limbs toss with a gust of wind and part to reveal one tiny diamond of night sky. Jughead tips back his head to look at the indifferent space and three stars in an elongated triangle. What do they care if he’s separated from the girl he wants?

Jughead crosses both arms on his knees. He’s never been particularly religious, never even considered going to church or pursuing thoughts of a higher power, but he finds he’s begging for help, for Betty if not for him, for a way to save that bright and beautiful girl who’s flung herself on a sword for the final timer. He doesn’t know whether those pleas go out to an indifferent universe or an all-powerful god or whether they’re just heard by those three tiny and sparkling stars, but perhaps it doesn’t matter.

“If anyone’s listening, um. Yeah. We just need some help,” he whispers in the lamest of endings.

The woods stay silent.

#

A minute or hours later, Jughead hears the gate click and jumps to his feet. Cautiously he approaches the metal bars, wondering if he dares to touch the strange triangle in the center. Darkness makes it look other-worldly, like a symbol from an ancient city below the waves.

For the hundredth time, he takes out his phone and peers at the screen. It shows the same status: NO SIGNAL. The Zone’s blackout is in effect everywhere, meaning zero contact with Sweet Pea.

 Jughead will lose his mind if he waits any longer. Shrugging off his shirt, he wraps it around one fist to cautiously tap the gate. He gasps as it swings open with an aggrieved squeal.

There are two ways to go from that point, the asylum or the toy factory. Neither is an appetizing option in the silent darkness. Since one of the upstairs windows flickered in the abandoned factory, Jughead turns towards the stained stone building and heads that way.

He makes it to the door of the factory, which is heavily locked up with thick chains and several padlocks. However, an empty window with the glass kicked out shows that intruders have entered the building.

_Intruders? No._ Only one intruder, and Jughead’s positive he knows her name.

With a grunt he hoists himself through the open sash, lands inside the factory, and gets his balance. The place is as dark as a crypt.

Switching on the phone flashlight, Jughead shrieks. Dozens of human limbs dangle from the ceiling on piano wires, swaying in the shadows. There are legs, arms, a few torsos…

“Dolls,” Jughead reminds himself. “They’re doll parts.” Still, the place must have been building some huge Barbies, since most of the pieces approach life-size.

Shuddering, he forces his gaze away and searches for a passage. The factory’s floor is a huge square filled with the hulks of old processing machines and equipment, some covered with tarps. Jughead picks up the corner of one to peer underneath and is confronted by blind baby heads with empty eye sockets. He quickly drops the tarp and turns back to his search.

His boots echo on the cement. _Are there bearded ruffians in the shadows? Assassins behind the die cutters? And is that an Iron Maiden or just file cabinets?_

The feeble, pathetic beam of light picks up a row of staring eyes on hooks, meant to open and close when a child picks up the doll. Jughead backs away and steps on a doll's voicebox, making a mechanized version of A Child’s Prayer emerge. Lying next to it on the floor is a splayed automoton with the tufted red hair and ghoulish grin of a clown.

“Clowns,” Jughead huffs. “Of course it had to be clowns.”

He nearly drops the phone but catches it between two fingers. The flashlight wavers once, twice, and shows a stairwell. It’s as dark as a hole in black velvet.

Jughead rotates his shoulders and cracks his knuckles. The dolls, the shrouded machines, even the broken window seems to wait to see what he’ll do next.

_I’m coming for you, Baby Girl._


	8. Chapter 8

On 12% power, Jughead's phone shows a spiral staircase like a circus geek’s spinal column heading into darkness. He hugs the edge of the stairs on the way up, hoping the treads won’t squeal and betray his approach. His shoes scuff the worn carpet at the top, and he waits, holding his breath.

He can hear fuzzy whispers, the dream of a conversation muted against sonic feedback. It’s coming from down the hall on the top floor.

As he prowls in that direction, Jughead flashes his pathetic little light on the walls. They are rich with a tapestry of graffiti, drunken teenage wit and memories of strangled romances blazing on the walls. But in between 'Jake Loves Carol' and 'Timothy is a Man-Hoar' there are more disturbing images: children with missing legs and arms, a man being disemboweled, women with tongues like serpents.

One piece stands out. A long-forgotten artist has drawn the symbol of three stars in an elongated triangle. It’s beautifully rendered in blue and gold with careful brushstrokes, as if the painter had been compelled to leave a tiny piece of beauty among all those horrors.

Two words are written underneath in capitals: THE HAMMER. Jughead has never heard of that particular constellation, if it exists at all. He nearly exclaims aloud when the words hit him -  _Hammer._ How could he have forgotten the tool he popped into his backpack as a makeshift weapon? And did he drop it on the way into Southside’s underbelly or inside the strange forest surrounding the toy factory?

As silently as possible, he kneels and peels off his backpack, thankful its zipper is broken after one too many tussles with Sweet Pea. Jughead thrusts in his hand and breathes out when he feels the chipped and ancient claw hammer. It's all he has left, but he's determined to make it count.

Abandoning the backpack, he stands and thrusts the handle into the back of his jeans. Whether he’ll have the guts to use it on a human is another matter. Betty’s golden and freckled face swims in the darkness, and Jughead nods grimly.

_I’m coming for you, Baby Girl._

The last door on the left is closed. Jughead edges up to it, curls his palm around the handle, and turns.

With a click, the door opens. There’s a small room inside lined with old movie projectors, all casting moving images on screens tacked up on the walls. The rays of light criss-cross each other, a weird and surrealistic knot of home movies.

On one screen, girl with a curly sprout of hair holds up a handful of mud. An older girl tucks a spanner in her pocket, wipes oil off her cheek, and smiles into the lens. Another blows out a birthday candle and smiles at the unseen photographer.

They are all the same girl, caught in different moments of her life.

In the center of those grainy images, Betty herself sits in a stool. Both hands seem to be tied behind her back, and her ankles are bound with rope so tightly wound it bites into her flesh.

There’s a dark figure in front of her. It has no head, and Jughead nearly screams.

Then the thing moves, and he sees it’s an optical illusion. The person is wearing a black hood, making it look as though he’s been decapitated.

“You’ve been a bad girl,” the man says. His voice is weary, the tone of a parent who’s caught a wayward child in some small crime. “You know what we’re going to have to do now.”

“I know, Dad.” Betty blinks rapidly, as though she’s trying to force back tears. “But don’t you think there’s another way? I could help you. You have no idea just how hard I’ll work to get you into a hospital instead of jail.”

_Dad?_ Jughead thinks. _Oh, no no no no no._

“A hospital?” the man screams. He rips off the hood to reveal pleasant features, the face of a former frat brother who’d have your back at the bar and is really great at playing darts. “Like the Asylum over there? The Sylum? The Silo?”

“Dad, please,” Betty pleads.

Jughead can’t wait any longer. He knows he only has one chance. Feeling for the hammer, he hefts it in one hand and prepares to jump forward. His last thought is: _what a way to meet a girl’s father._

On his upswing, all of the moving images on the screens around the dark room blink out and are replaced with completely different people. There’s a gap-toothed kid standing next to a girl. Next to them a man relaxes against a motorcycle, his chin rich with scruff.

They’re in a postage-stamp sized lawn in front of a tiny house. Jughead recognizes the place - recently he has kissed Betty there. No wonder he thought he knew what was upstairs, the books under the window seat and Jane Eyre in a red leather cover: at some forgotten point in time, he has lived there with FP, Gladys, and –

“Jellybean,” Jughead gasps.

Betty’s head jerks up, and her mouth forms an O of shock. “Jughead, run!” she shouts. “Run, now!”

The man turns and almost lazily drives one fist into Jughead’s belly. “Yeah,” he says. “Jellybean, Mr. Jones. Your sister. Ever wonder why she and your mom didn’t call you back?”

“I’ll find them for you,” Betty sobs. “Just go, please, Juggie, please, go.”

Even if he wanted to, Jughead can’t move. A giant fist crashes against his jaw, and the room tilts so suddenly he falls with it on a spinning carousel of fear. Jughead shakes his head and feels a small, hard object slide out between his lips.

A tooth.

All around them, the retro images align until they all move at the same time in retro colors of old family movies, almost soothing with how faded and homey they look with orange circles of sunlight and green-tinted skin. FP raises one hand and waves, Gladys makes shoo-ing motions at him, Jellybean snickers behind one dirty fist. Jughead watches as his younger self points offscreen, shouting what looks like a warning.

_Storm,_ the kid seems to say. _A storm’s coming._

Jughead watches his family move and flicker in perfect synchronization before they are blotted out by the man’s face. He looks kindly and concerned, the perfect father. FP, in comparison, resembles a junkyard dog with his twitching eyes and unshaved cheeks. “You should have stayed home,” Hood says. “Should have let me take care of things. Instead you barged in, and my goodness! What a mess you’ve made.”

“Betty,” Jughead slurs through his broken mouth and receives another, harsher punch in the gut.

“Don’t you dare say her name,” Hood pants. His insanity is suddenly visible, birthing like a bubo on a plague victim's throat. “Or I'll go bone-surgeon on your ass.”

A series of dreadful images sear Jughead’s brain, all starring Hood as a doctor in blood-stained scrubs and holding various hideous medical implements. “Okay,” he soothes. “I won’t.”

Around them, Jughead’s younger self laughs into the camera. Jellybean hooks both index fingers into her mouth and sticks out her tongue, squinting at the rays of late sun. He wants to be back there with his sister so badly his body aches.

As if in a dream, Jughead sees an arm stretch up, silhouetted against the long-ago late afternoon and laughing children. It’s holding his claw hammer. He is about to scream No Don’t, when the weapon smashes down with enough force to rock the wooden floor underneath them.

A large and heavy object smashes onto his chest. Dimly Jughead feels a spray of hot liquid, soaking into his shirt and jeans with the steady pump of a disappearing life.

“Am I dead?” He's dazed with horror and confusion. “Damn it, I didn’t want to be dead. One final cheeseburger would have been nice. And I really really wanted a good long kiss from Betty, even better if we were both naked and in my bed.”

“Jughead.” A pair of small hands help to roll the heavy object off his chest, and he realizes what it is. Hood subsides and slumps on the floor, inky blood spreading from his crushed skull.

“Don’t look at him. It's - it's pretty bad.” Betty reaches for Jughead’s shoulder, pulls him up, and slings his arm around her waist. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Wait, was I talking out loud back there?” He pulls her closer. “I didn’t - I mean – I meant what I said, you know…”

“Jughead,” she repeats. “My dad - the Hood - is really good with mechanics. Those projectors are wired to explosives under the floor. Any second now this entire place is going to blow.”

“Holy shit!” Jughead limps beside her out of the hellish room and its motionless occupant. Together he and Betty slither towards the stairs in the dark and feel for the railing.

“Got it,” she says. “This way. Don’t let the darkness confuse you, Juggie. We’re going to make it out alive – there’s just no other option.”

“Thought I was supposed to rescue you, Baby Girl,” he protests.

“And you did. Hood was ready to kill us both in one final act of insanity, would have done it too if you hadn’t arrived.”

“Humph.” He wants to ask how she got out of those tight ropes and – oh God – if she had really just killed a man, but survival is more important. Together they stumble down the final steps into the factory, where giant doll parts swing overhead in murky darkness.

Night has arrived, but Jughead can see his own personal starry triangle through the broken window. “That way,” he states. Betty just nods, and hand-in-hand they fly towards the way out. Just as they reach the wall, he catches the toe of one boot on a damn machine or some fucking clown doll and trips like a clumsy toddler.

As Betty helps him up, they hear an ominous rumble upstairs.

“Now, Baby, now!” He boosts her up through the window sill, manages to leap up after with the last of his strength. The last thing Jughead sees of the factory is thousands of startled doll heads watching a fireball rush down the stairs to fry them.

Then he’s falling onto the ground in a tucked roll, and somehow he finds his feet and Betty in one motion. Both of them are sobbing as they run towards the gated entrance, not daring to look back. Any moment Jughead expects to burst into flames or at least have the skin seared off his neck.

But they make it through the gate before the toy factory explodes with a boom so large Jughead feels it turn his heart inside-out. He falls on top of Betty and cradles her head against his chest. “Jesus,” he chatters. “We’re alive. We’re actually alive.”

Debris whistles around them, falling like meteorites among the dendrite trees. Jughead waits, and slowly the world seems to right itself. He feels Betty’s breath heaving under him, hears her whisper to the breeze. “Sorry,” she’s saying. “I’m so sorry.” And he’s about to reply _it’s okay, it’s fine,_ but then he thinks perhaps her words aren’t for him.

#

Betty and Jughead emerge from the forest. He’s sporting a gash on his forehead, and her face is striped with ash and Hood’s blood. Jughead thinks she looks like a fetching witch, or a virgin from some ancient ceremony.

She stops, and a thin trail snakes from her eye through the mess on her cheeks. “He was my dad, a long time ago.”

“A long time ago,” Jughead repeats firmly. “He sacrificed that by doing what he did. How many kids did he kidnap?”

“A lot,” Betty sighs. “But he never killed anyone. Only his daughter did that.”

“Hey.” He turns her towards him. “He was going to take you both down, remember? In the end, you saved my life.”

“I’m pretty sure you saved mine.”

A red light strobes in her eyes. Jughead turns to see a police car pull up by the grass. Its doors open, and Sweet Pea emerges from one side. “Hey Shithead!” he carols. “Like my ride? First time I ever got up front with the heat!”

Jughead shields his eyes with one hand and is just able to make out the sheriff, eyes masked under the peak of his hat as he raises a megaphone. “Hands up,” the man barks. “You’re both wanted for questioning downtown.”

As if in a hideous dream, Jughead feels Betty leave his side and step forward. He tries to stop her, but it's too late.

“I’m the one you want,” she calls. “I’m turning myself in for the murder of my father, Hal Cooper. You probably know him as the Black Hood.”


	9. Chapter 9

Southside High is barely recognizable when Jughead returns to school. The money recovered thanks to Betty's Red and Black article means new supplies, an updated science lab, and continued repairs on the football field. The cafeteria has been painted light yellow over years of graffiti. The prison-style chain-link has been removed. There are actual ovens with actual food and an actual cook who is stirring a huge pot of chili when Jughead slouches in.

He collapses into one of the fancy new seats across from Fangs, who’s talking to some guy with chiseled chin and wide smile. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “Classic theater is fine, but Hamilton broke boundaries.”

“So did Sarah Bernhardt’s Hamlet,” Kevin, the new kid, insists. “She played a male character in tights long before drag was mainstream.”

The students have also changed at Southside. Fangs spends a lot of time with Kevin. Archie has transferred, as well as a girl named Veronica and some big beefsteaks named Moose and Reggie. Ever since the Zone has been liberated, there’s been nowhere else for these newcomers to go.

Cheryl has forced her parents to move into the old Thornhill place down by the river. Her rich father is building a syrup mill on their property, making Southside tongues wag about potential jobs.

These new arrivals seem to bring noise and color in their wake as they move through the halls of Southside High: Archie sometimes digs out a guitar and riffs during lunch or after class. Veronica seems to own an endless wardrobe. Cheryl’s bright hair is a beacon in the hallway, and she’s starting a cheerleader squad. Toni, of all people, has already signed up to be a Vixen.

Jughead has to admit Southside is a better place – or it would be if it weren’t for the giant Betty-sized hole in the picture. The one person responsible for all of these upgrades has vanished, leaving him behind in this place that is both brighter and darker. What wouldn’t he give for Betty to walk through the cafeteria swinging doors right now, dressed in ribbons and pastels like a wrapped parcel? What wouldn’t he give to see her face, pale and determined from facing horrors in the toy factory, her green eyes cocooning a dream of escape?

Southside is all he knows. It’s his home. He’s grown up there, ditched gym class, written stories, stolen kisses with a long line of girls under the bleachers. Slept with most of them later, either in his dad’s trailer or wedged in the back seat of an accommodating Buick.

But there’s one girl Jughead’s never tasted, which drives him insane. “I’m coming for you,” he told Betty in the library. Since that moment he’s driven a constant voyage to her heart, and at the last moment the map’s been whisked away leaving him emptier than ever.

“Hey.” Across the table, Fangs nudges Jughead. “Betty got everyone out by sacrificing herself. Once the cops figure it all out, they’ll let her go. I bet she’s released this weekend.”

“I’ll testify in her defense,” Kevin adds.

Fangs leans back in his chair and lets a slow smile spread over his face. “You’ll be quite the picture in the stand. Going to wear a fancy suit – maybe a bowtie for extra drama?”

Obviously Fogarty is on the prowl. Jughead stands and heaves his messenger bag over one shoulder. “Thanks,” he growls.

“Get out of here, Jones. Go write a novel or something.”

Feeling better than he has in days, Jughead heads to the hallway. Maybe he’ll actually go and catch up on homework. Maybe he’ll study for the SAT’s. Maybe he can go home after school and clean the trailer, get in some groceries from the bodega, and fix up the place. Betty can stay there once she’s released. They’ll eat dinner at his scummy little kitchen table or just sit and read on his dad’s couch.

And when Sunnyside subsides into slumber, he and Betty can finish what they started in the Zone.

Whistling the theme to Peter Gunn, Jughead opens his locker, revealing the double-wide space inside. At the beginning of the year he absorbed the locker next to his, removing the metal between them so he’s got extra space for books. At the moment it’s filled with piles of old worksheets and messy notebooks.

A simple trash-dump would help organize his life. His revitalization plan could start here.

Energized by the thought of seducing Betty, Jughead sneaks into a nearby classroom and absconds with the trashcan. He sets it down by his messenger bag and begins to stuff the can full of old Sociology notes and red-lined quizzes. _Not working up to your potential,_ Mr. Masters has scrawled under a D grade. _You know you’re better than this._

“Just you wait,” Jughead mutters to the absent teacher. “I’ll show you potential.”

The hairs on his arm stand up before these grand plans are finished. _Something wicked this way comes,_ he thinks, not sure why Macbeth flashes into his mind. Jughead’s about to get back to sorting out his trashy life when there’s the softest of footsteps, a breathy laugh.

Like a shot, Jughead dives into the locker. He’s just able to haul his bag in after him and close the door before the footsteps grow closer. The dark space smells like the inside of an old lunchbox. His mouth tastes like iron. Both knees are jammed under his chin, making one leg cramp. Pinching his nose, Jughead tries not to inhale.

For a few minutes, nothing happens. He can hear the heating turn on with a shuddering groan, perhaps an effort from the janitor who whistles Clementine in Southside High’s basement.

“…going to shit anyway,” Penny Peabody says outside Jughead’s hiding place. “And the police presence around here isn’t helping, not to mention the Feds.”

Another breathy laugh, and he nearly shouts in fear. He’d recognize that hungry innocence anywhere. “Imagine if we could take over the Zone,” Geraldine says dreamily. “Hal was on the right track, but he lacked vision.”

“You mean he lacked sanity.”

Jughead makes a hideous face in the dark and tries to will them to move on so he can escape. There’s a lot to do before Betty’s released. She could be in his bed before month’s end.

“It would be mighty convenient if Hal’s daughter takes the fall,” Penny continues. “But her type always gets off scot-free, which complicates things if we want to take the Zone. Do you know what kind of money we’d make if I got my hands on that place once the Feds clear out?”

“The Feds will never clear out,” Grundy whispers. “There’s no way to run drugs, even with a convenient factory for cooking Jangle.”

There’s a short pause, punctuated by a long stream of foul language from Penny.

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” the music teacher continues. “You just need to change your focus. Suppose you offered to rebuild the Asylum and host troubled Southside youth there? I could offer my best music therapy. We could involve some holy rollers, call it Sisters of the Quiet Mercy or some religious-sounding name. Investors would love it. In fact, I have a certain gentleman at my feet right now ready to throw money my way for the right project. And when the time is right, we could offer a different product.”

_What product?_ Jughead wants to scream. _You mean you’re going to pimp out kids?_

“Damn, Geraldine,” Penny rasps. “You’re sick as fuck and I love it.” This pronouncement is followed by a long silence. Jughead dares to peek through the slats of the locker door and sees the two women locked in a deep kiss, right there in the middle of the school. They part with a sigh, and Penny shakes her head. “Not going to work, though. Hal Cooper bought that land outright, and it all goes to his daughter when she’s released.”

Grundy looks up at Penny. Her amber hair untwists from its knot, the look of a woman who’s just hopped out of bed and wants to jump right back. She peeks up at Penny before lowering her lashes. “That’s not going to happen.”

“What won’t happen? The Cooper kid? Bullshit.” Penny strokes Grundy’s waist, hip, thigh. “Girls like her always get off, even with the lame-ass public defender they’re going to get her.”

“Not if I give testimony.”

“Testimony? What are you talking about, you naughty girl?”

“It’s a terrible thing when a student threatens a teacher. Miss Cooper and I had a moment in the cafeteria a few days ago. My guess is everyone saw it, but no one heard what she actually said. I could go to the sheriff this afternoon, and I happen to know the public defender. I can sway him to – not do his very best, let’s say.”

“Oh damn,” Peabody laughs. “You know it tickles me down there when you look like an abandoned orphan and act like Marie Lalaurie.”

#

In the green murk of the police station, Betty seems to float behind glass like a lovely mermaid imprisoned in a dirty aquarium. She picks up the clunky receiver and forces a wavering smile, still bright despite her desperate circumstances. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she begins.

Jughead leans forward. “Forget all that. You’re in trouble, Baby Girl, and I’m not sure how to help.”

Her knuckles whiten as Betty steadies the old-fashioned phone. “I know things look hopeless. You’re probably angry with me, and I do understand, but there was no other choice. Not to sound like a bad movie, but my fate was sealed years ago.”

“I get that. Well, no, I don’t really understand why… but that isn’t why I’m here. What happened in the toy factory was an act of self-defense. I’m going to be the main witness to that when you go to trial.”

“I don’t have a lawyer,” Betty says sadly. “No money, no future – nothing, really.”

“That’s not true.” He stares at her intently. “You have me.”

“Is that really true? Because if it is, I’m the luckiest girl alive.”

“It is true. But here’s the thing. I think the self-defense plea would be straight-forward, but I just found out there’s another witness. A hostile one.” Shame pours over him and he forces the words out. “Grundy plans to say you threatened her that day after everything went south. Penny Peabody’s in on it, and those two together are deadly as cobras.”

Betty’s lips settle into a firm line. “It’ll be fine. I’ll have public council and a fair trial. Maybe no one will listen to what Miss Grundy has to say.”

“Baby Girl,” Jughead says desperately. “I wouldn’t put it past them to get to the jury and your lawyer.”

Her eyes close. “Oh. Gosh. Well. Thank you for telling me, but I’ll just have to work extra hard and make my testimony that more compelling …”

He slams his hand on the desk, making the guard jump and glare in their direction. “You don’t understand!” Jughead hisses. “They want to turn the Zone into a reform school with a nasty twist, a place to hold kids, pretend to give them therapy, use them for stuff I don’t even want to repeat.”

“Really?” Betty’s eyes turn silver, like twin mirrors that have reflected a blood-spattered murder. Anger makes her prettier than ever, with flushed cheeks and sharp jawline. “We can’t let it happen, Juggie.”

He’s finally gotten her attention. _What an idiot,_ Jughead can't help thinking. _She doesn’t care about her own safety, but offer up a new set of victims and she’s all ready to tilt at windmills._

“So they want me out of the way to get the Zone.” She drums her fingers on the scratched desk. “If Grundy’s ready to perjure herself, we’ll have to be ruthless.” Betty in full angry throttle looks like a warrior goddess, if those ladies ever wore orange jumpsuits with a gray cardigan. The effect makes Jughead’s brain melt and his insides twist.

There’s a tap on his shoulder, and the guard breathes onions and grape soda into Jughead’s space. “Time’s up. _This_ way if you please. Sir,” the fellow adds with disdain.

He allows the ham-handed guard to hang up the receiver and pull him towards the exit. But as he’s about to leave, some deep-seated instinct makes him turn.

Betty stands at the glass, banging with both the receiver and her fist. _Jughead,_ she shouts in a silent scream.

Wrenching away from the guard, he runs back to the glass. “What is it, Baby Girl? What?”

_Talk to Toni,_ Betty mouths. _Ask her about the…_

“Out,” the guard repeats. “Get your trailer-trash ass out of here before I lock you up for disturbing the peace.”

#

When Jughead enters the makeshift office of The Red and Black, Cheryl is staring down her nose at a chemistry text. “The Table of Elements!” she snorts. “Why should I learn about that? The only element I need to know about is the one of surprise.”

“Chemistry can be interesting.” Toni abandons her laptop and hitches her chair closer. “Those noble gasses are like you - stand-offish but just needing a little catalyst.”

Images flash across Toni’s screen: Sweet Pea laughing with Fangs, the news crew working on their latest issue, a quick shot of Betty and Jughead intent on each other. He sucks in his breath before the picture flickers and disappears.

“Catalyst, huh?” Cheryl’s gaze flicks over the other girl, cool and assessing. The tension between them is almost visible.

“Topaz,” Jughead interrupts desperately. The girls look up with the same expression: _Are you really ruining our moment right now?_ He doesn’t have time to care. “Topaz,” he repeats. “Betty asked me to ask you something.”

She props one arm along the back of Cheryl’s chair. “Ask me what?”

“I don’t know what it was. The guard dragged me out of there before Betty could tell me what to ask.”

“How are we supposed to answer a non-question, Schrodinger?” Cheryl demands. “You’re wasting our time.”

Jughead collapses against the wall. “Grundy and Peabody are going to take her down,” he mutters. “I overhead them in the hall when I hid in my locker because they were coming while I was cleaning out my life … anyway. Grundy plans to make up some shit about Betty threatening her.”

“ _Betty?”_ both girls say together.

“Nonsense,” Cheryl adds. “She’s the kind who rescues kittens from tornadoes.” A thought seemed to strike her and she adds, "To be fair, she also took out the Black Hood with a hammer.”

“That’s the thing,” Jughead says. “Everything Betty did was in self-defense unless someone tries to show pre-meditation. Those two stone-cold bitches plan to influence Betty’s lawyer to get her indicted.”

Toni opens her mouth, maybe to gasp or tell him he’s crazy, but Cheryl interrupts. “She was always a pain in my beautifully-toned ass, you know that? Always telling us to ‘keep up our morale’ and ‘things always look darkest before the dawn.’ I wanted to smack the chirp right off her face.” She pauses. “But if it wasn’t for Betty Cooper, I’d still be stuck inside the Zone waiting for my turn to be sent to the Asylum.”

“The Red and Black wouldn’t exist,” Toni supplies. “That money would never have been found. I’d be taking selfies in a mirror, and Sweet Pea wouldn’t have discovered his writer’s side.”

“What if I fucked it up?” The words are torn from him, like innards from a plucked chicken. “Grundy might not have targeted Betty in the first place if I hadn’t been such an asshole and driven home with her one night.”

Cheryl raises one eyebrow. “’Drove home?’ Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Slow down.” Toni’s voice is harsh. “Listen, princess, can you give me and Romeo here a minute? I need to remind him that he’s not a telenovela star.” Cheryl doesn’t reply. She stands, swivels, and sails out of the room like a crimson swan. “Hate to see her leave, love to watch her go,” Toni murmurs. “Now, what’s happening? One thing at a time, or we’ll never be able to help Betty.”

Jughead gulps and tries to explain exactly what he overheard as well as the phone conversation with Betty. “She told me to ask you something,” he adds. “But I don’t know what it was, since one of the sheriff’s goons interrupted her before she could say it.”

“You told her about Grundy’s evil plans when you visited, right?” When he nods, Toni taps one finger against her upper lip. “Hm. Whatever she wants you to ask me has to be about that – doubt she was looking for my empanada recipe. But why me?”

As soon as she mentions the newspaper, it hits him. “Camera,” Jughead blurts. “Maybe Betty thinks you have some pictures that might help. Go through your rolls, Topaz.”

“I’ve got a lot of pictures on my drive.” Toni points to a folder marked ‘School Newspaper Junk_1’ ranked beside seven identical folders. “Shit, this could take all night.”

“Can you search for images with Betty? Or – anything with Grundy?” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Of course the real bonus would be an image of both, showing Betty’s innocence and Grundy being herself.”

Toni curls her fingers around his wrist. “Jug! I have one picture of you, Betty, and Grundy. Took it during lunch. Where did – here!” She clicks on the image. Jughead would admire the framing and Toni’s use of color and design, except he’s too intent on the subjects.

Grundy has her hand on his sleeve, lust evident in every line of her figure. Her mouth is open to say something, and its effect is apparent in Jughead’s curled lip and frown.

But it’s Betty who steals the picture. Her face is white with shock, making her more beautiful than ever. Toni has captured that terrible moment perfectly when Grundy went out of her way to let Betty know about Jughead’s ill-thought betrayal, the biggest mistake of his life.

He’s about to kiss Toni’s cheek and tell her he owes her everything, when she turns to him. “What’s going on here? I know you like this girl, but I’ve seen you with a lot of women before. Hell, I’ve _been_ one of those women. So what’s happening? Because you’ve never acted like this about anyone before.”

“Yeah.” Jughead swipes one hand over his face. “I know this sounds like a Hallmark movie, but I can’t stop thinking about her. Betty’s smart and damaged and brave as hell. I …”

Toni’s dark eyes soften, and she smiles. “Don’t hurt yourself. I think I get it. Now, we’re going to get this image out there before Penny or Grundy figure out what we’ve got. But how?”

For the first time in days, a tiny spring of hope bubbles inside him and he feels he can breathe again. “Topaz,” Jughead announces, “we’re going to channel Betty Cooper and figure it out.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Problem 1, the photos.” Toni pins her prints on the corkboard in FP’s kitchen, steps back, and tilts her head on one side to consider. “By themselves they don’t prove anything, even if Grundy’s mouth is open and Betty looks like she just heard the sound of impending doom.”

The cheap kitchen chair squeaks as Cheryl crosses her legs. “Right. To us it’s obvious, since Dear Geraldine claims Betty threatened her life in the cafeteria that day. But we only have a couple of shots, not a video.”

“A good lawyer could make a case out of these.” Jughead’s voice is hoarse from going over the evidence they have, which isn’t much. He sips tap water from an old Mason jar and glares at the corkboard.

“Which brings us to Problem 2.” Sweet Pea scratches the stubble on his chin. “We all know your girl’s going to get screwed over in the courts. We need to make this evidence more compelling and get her an attorney who’ll actually listen to us.” Digging in his jeans pocket, Sweet Pea produces a few dimes and one shirt button. “I’ve got 43 cents until Friday. Face it, big guy, your girlfriend is hosed. But she’s pretty, and she’s white, which means two years at the most with time off for good behavior.”

Jughead smashes his hand on the kitchen table. “Betty sacrificed herself for all those kids! For you, Cheryl, for everyone inside the Zone, and I’m supposed to sit back as she takes the fall for everyone?”

_I’m not that much of a martyr._ If she were here, it’s what she would tell him. She’d stand in the door and tilt up her chin sharply enough to cut straight to his heart. He’d knock over a chair getting to her and whisk her outside where he’d kiss her breathless.

“Stand down,” Pea argues. “No one wants to abandon Betty, we’re just outlining the situation.”

With a long groan, Jughead scrubs back his hair and looks at the ceiling of the trailer’s kitchenette. He's blind to the usual marks there – the place where Tall Boy chucked his full beer one Halloween, a goat-shaped stain when a jar of sauce exploded, the little roof patch that FP put up a few years ago. Instead, he just sees a golden girl held inside a dark cell. “Guess I should sneak into the jail somehow and see if Betty has any ideas. Thing is, the current sheriff isn’t too pleased with me.”

“We could hook Jughead up with a blond wig and fake glasses.” Having dropped this bomb, Cheryl produces a mirror from thin air and checks her perfect lipstick.

Toni gasps and clutches her hand. “That would be perfect, blond wig too amazing, oh my gosh let’s do it right now.”

“What?” Appalled, Jughead slides out of his seat and begins to back towards the single bedroom. “Oh no. I’m not wearing a wig.”

“A _blond_ wig,” Cheryl repeats. “And golfer pants. Maybe you should carry a cigar, and you’d have to call yourself Sterling or Bentley.”

“No way,” Jughead shouts. “I’ll get Betty out of that hellhole, but you’re not playing dress-up with me, not today, don’t even think about it. Let’s shut that down right now. Not happening. No wig, no fancy clothes, no Sterling Bentley. _NO_.”

#

Several hours later he’s inside the police station once again. Jughead resists the urge to fidget, since the yellow plaid slacks keep riding up to give him a wedgie. Eyeing the door to the sheriff’s office, Jughead itches one ear and feels Cheryl's blond wig shift.

“Oh, Mr. Bentley?” the receptionist trills. “Acting Attorney Wright will see you now.”

Keeping in mind Toni’s advice ( _Kiss her ass and don’t be your usual dick self, it’s only 20 minutes for fuck’s sake_ ) he heads into a plush office. There are original signed prints on the walls, leather seats, and a desk that gleams with richly polished wood. Attorney Wright stands with her back to him and eyes a row of books lined up like blue soldiers on a narrow battlefield. Jughead recognizes this as a power move meant to indicate the lawyer’s contempt. He’s not even worth the effort it takes for her to turn around.

Trying to channel Betty’s bright bravery in the face of her daily demons, Jughead flails his features into what he hopes is a pleasant and friendly expression. “Attorney Wright?”

The woman holds up one finger, pulls out a book, and begins to read. It’s warm inside her office, and under the wig Jughead begins to sweat. Should he sit down or just stand and wait like a spineless douche?

_Just 20 minutes._

Wright puts the book in the center of her kid-leather deskpad and arranges it so everything is lined up with precision. Finally the woman folds gracefully into what looks like an extremely comfy chair, crosses her ankles, and regards Jughead over the top of half-glasses. She doesn’t tell him to sit.

“I have a lunch meeting that requires a great deal of preparation.” Her low tone is pleasant, but the meaning is clear. She wants him gone as soon as possible.

“Understood.” He opens a file folder stolen from school, pulls out several copies of Toni’s photos, and holds them out. “I wanted to bring you some further evidence in the Betty Cooper case, as I told the sheriff’s office. If you look at…”

Wright plucks the bundle out of his fingers and flings them on her desk. A shot of Betty staring at Grundy in horror slides onto the floor and comes to rest on one of the tasseled loafers Cheryl has forced Jughead to wear.

“A big part of the case against my friend hinges on the accusation by Geraldine Grundy.” Even inside his own skull Jughead sounds as though he's begging without any hope. “We’ve made this list of the people in this photograph. They’re all willing to testify that no such accusation ever occurred.” Sweet Pea has typed out that list using two fingers and a lots of shouted Fucks.

The attorney doesn’t bother to look at the sheet. Rising from her swivel chair, she sends the rest of the papers to the floor with one careless swipe of a red fingernail. “Hearsay doesn't count in the courtroom. Now, pick up your items and leave my office. We’re out of time.”

#

“Dude, what are you doing?”

Jughead looks up from a bag of kettle chips to see Archie, eyebrows raised and wide mouth quirked as if he’s ready to smile. It makes him look like a goofy but lovable hound.

Too late, Jughead remembers he’s still wearing the blond wig. Plucking it off his head he hurls it into the nearest trashcan. “Since you asked, I just suffered through the most insulting interview with the devil. Did you ever ask yourself what happened to Satan? Or if Lucifer actually exists? I can assure you she is alive and well and working in the office next to Sheriff Minetta’s. Oh, and she also happens to be Betty’s lawyer, and one day I'm going to jam these loafers down her throat. Any other questions?”

“Wait.” Archie’s brows twitch together. “Betty has a lawyer?”

“Of course she does! ‘You have the right to an attorney’ etcetera, except The Powers That Be have seen to it that Betty’s own lawyer wants her locked away for life.” He considers and adds, “Maybe ten years. Of course, it didn’t help that Betty confessed to killing her father.”

“But he was a murderer! She saved us.” The situation finally appears to dawn on the kid, and he pulls out a phone. “No. No way. Betty’s not taking the rap for saving me, and Ronnie, and Reggie – heck, she saved all of us.”

To his surprise, Jughead agrees with the big lug. “Exactly! The brave idiot put herself in jeopardy because she wanted to take the hit instead of you. And here we are, about to go to court with no one but a fiend in a navy suit to help her. And we're pretty sure Betty's attorney wants to get a guilty verdict so they can take the Zone away from the girl… the girl I…” To his horror, he feels a scalding tear slide down one cheek.

“Okay, let’s get out of here and find some real food.” Archie looks around the police station with distaste.

“Why were you here anyway?” As he slouches out of the station, Jughead waves the stale chips under Archie's nose. “Obviously it’s not for the fine cuisine.”

“I was about to visit Betty, but if things are as bad as you say I can do a lot more good over a couple of burgers.” Archie knocks Jughead’s elbow with his own and adds, “Social services gave me a debit card for expenses. Might as well use some of it.”

“What do you mean, do more good?” Jughead’s tired of being polite, of putting on an act, of living one more second without Betty Cooper. “What the hell can you do? I had a meeting with my friends, we came up with the best ideas possible, spent the morning interviewing and lining up witnesses for the defense, and that hellspawn won’t even look at it!”

“Okay, shh.” Archie descends the police department steps and jerks his head for Jughead to follow. “The thing is, my mom is also a lawyer. I’m pretty sure we can get her to take the case of the girl who saved my life.” He pauses, grabs Jughead’s chips, and tosses the bag into the trash with a perfect swoosh. “You really like her, huh?”

“Betty?” It’s not something Jughead has considered. In his world girls are a moment of pleasure unless you’re friends with them, like Toni, or else they’re enemies like Penny. His mom and sister disappeared when he was eleven. The Serpents aren’t exactly known for advocating for Equal Rights, and with a flush of shame Jughead realizes in that moment that he’s let those principles guide him as well.

Only Betty has stood out. She’s intelligent, funny, beautiful, and a hero. He wants her, Jughead knows that much, but – _like_ her? It’s not something he’s ever considered.

In the middle of the usual Southside concerto comprised of traffic, pick-up basketball, and distant rap, Archie’s voice is hushed. “My mom will take her case, Jughead. I’m sure of it.”

#

That night, Jughead falls asleep over homework at the kitchen table. Around midnight, he wakes with a soft whisper in his ear: “I had to come and see you.”

Opening his eyes, he sees Betty in the center of the old kitchenette. She’s pale from being out of the sun for days. Her hair is twisted into a sloppy topknot, and she wears old sweatpants and a ripped t-shirt.

She's the loveliest thing he's ever seen in the Southside.

Jughead rises so quickly his chair pitches backwards onto the floor. Ignoring it he strides forward, fists Betty’s shirt (“Property of Southside Municipal Prison”) and pulls her in for a desperate kiss. “Missed you,” he says against her lips. “Missed you so much, Baby Girl.”

She’s firm in his arms, warm as he hoists her up and puts her on the kitchen counter. It means he can step between her thighs, kiss her, push the beautiful line of her jaw and taste the gorgeous flesh on her neck. Betty is all silky, cool at first and warming instantly under his touch.

Impossible not to kiss, and lick, and bite. She sighs and stretches under his touch, offering herself with nothing between them at last: not a wall, not her monster of a father, not a prison cell. It’s just her on the kitchen counter, legs spread to let him in so he can press against her core. Only the flimsiest bands of fabric separate them.

There’s a slight clink, the tap of a small object being set on the counter beside them.

Jughead opens his eyes and sees what it is. There’s a pair of glasses in old-fashioned frames, rocking slightly from being dropped by small, pale fingers.

He's wrong. It’s not Betty in his arms. Geraldine Grundy sits on the counter, lips quirked in a half-smile as she winds her arms around his neck.

Shock strikes him, blinding as the hot strike of electricity. Jughead yanks away from her, _No no no no_ the only thing he can say as she murmurs that he loved it, that he nearly had her, that she can see how much he wants it, that one small push and he’ll be inside.

A violent shudder shakes him, and Jughead wakes up. He’s still sitting at the kitchen table, alone in the trailer. There’s nothing else there except his history books and a half-finished essay on the assassination of Duke Ferdinand.

But as Jughead closes his books and piles them in a clumsy stack, he sees a tiny scrap of graph paper poking out of his marble composition notebook. When he plucks it out, he sees six words in neat capitals: DON’T FORGET TO CHECK THE CEILING.

He has no idea who has written those words or why he dreamed what he did. All Jughead knows is one inescapable fact – one way or another, he has to get Betty back.


	11. Secrets of Sunnyside

An empty desk is only furniture, unless it belongs to Betty Cooper. The vacant seat seems to stare at Jughead as he enters the English class and thumbs through his bursting binder until he finds the assignment he needs. He thwaps the worksheet on Toni’s shoulder to pass up to the teacher, a sad-faced substitute with dusty shoes and a forgotten XL size sticker on one gabardine buttcheek.

Jughead retreats to organize his books, making a face at Fangs and Sweet Pea. “Who even are you?” Sweet Pea raps the cover of Jughead’s notebook with one knuckle. “Doing homework, studying all the time, and you stayed after class for extra tutoring in math yesterday. Yes you did, don’t make that Who Me face.”

“Knowing stuff is good.” Jughead side-eyes Betty’s desk, considering how the one thing he’s gained through all this is an appreciation for information and gaming the system. Brute force and low-budget ninja methods are all very well, but they don’t get you too far when you’re up against the large size 10 of the law.

“Yeah yeah, okay.” Pea jerks his head at the classroom door. “By the way, Heatmiser’s here for you again.”

Looking up from a list of vocabulary words, Jughead sees Archie leaning against the door of the class. The kid flashes his signature grin and beckons with two fingers, looking around as though bearded ruffians might jump him at any second. “Hey,” he breathes when Jughead sneaks out and joins him. “Guess what? My mom has flown in to take Betty’s case. They’re going to meet today. Oh, and she wants to meet you.”

Like a series of downed dominos, Jughead feels the tense muscles in his body relax. “I want to meet your mom too. This is amazing news, Arch. Does Betty know? Can we see her?”

Archie’s wide grin disappears. “I haven’t been able to visit her at all. Each time I go in, the guard tells me she’s outside, or on a break, or doing work-study.”

Jughead’s breath escapes in a rush. “Same thing happened to me. Okay, let’s meet up at the station after school, and we can get Betty out of that hell-hole.”

#

Mary Andrews and Attorney Wright face each other across a rickety table like two wary cats. “Just to be clear, we have filed all necessary paperwork with the county.” Archie’s mom speaks in an even tone, but Jughead can see her nostrils flare with anger. “Yes, they’re notarized. No, there’s no waiting period. Yes, this change is in effect immediately. No, you can’t go to the governor because I’ve already spoken with the _Senator_ and she’s pledged her support.”

Attorney Wright stalks forward in her kid-leather heels towards the doorway. “It seems you have covered all your bases. However,” she adds, “I must tell you none of this is necessary. Ms Cooper’s case was settled this morning under my jurisdiction.” She slams the office door shut in Jughead’s nose, and he collapses against the wall with a groan.

“Settled! What do you think The Wright Witch has planned for Betty?”

“I don’t know,” Archie states. “But it can’t be good, even if the case isn’t going to court.”

“Exactly!” Pleased that the kid has picked up on his thought process, Jughead thumps Archie’s chest with one fist. “Penny and Grundy jumped through a lot of hoops to get to Betty, and they aren’t just going to let her fly like a canary out of a cage.” He drops his voice and adds, “When I overheard those two bitches, they talked about plans for the Zone. Grundy mentioned the Asylum and kids. She was going to testify at Betty’s trial in order to get her claws on the land and use it for some scheme that Penny – _Penny_ \- called ‘sick as fuck.’”

Archie whistles. “It just doesn’t make any sense, does it? Those two don’t seem the type to say, Hey we’ve thought things over and we’re just going to let it go.”

“Definitely not. And besides, Grundy said she knew a guy who would invest. Her exact words were ‘He’s at my feet.’”

“Huh. Well, at least Betty will be free and we can ask her for ideas. Want to go and raid the snack machine again?”

“Ugh.” Jughead follows anyway, since there’s nothing else to do. He digs out a couple of quarters and buys some Corn Nuts, which are like eating salt grenades, and collapses into a torture device chair next to Archie. After a few minutes of watching the kid flip through People magazines and comment on every nice rack on every cute girl, Jughead stops paying attention and digs out his phone.

Instantly Archie is distracted. “Playing Plague? Or Alto?”

“Studying history,” Jughead grunts. “There’s a quiz on Monday.”

“Wait. You have a quiz, not even a test, and an entire weekend to study for it? Not to mention homeroom and lunch.”

“What’s your point?” Jughead thumbs through the first Quizlet and pushes Archie away with one elbow. “And you’re breathing down my actual neck, by the way.”

“You’re just not what I thought you were.” Archie grins and adds, “Once this is all finished, we should hang out. You do stuff other than study, right?”

‘Oh.” ‘Hanging out’ has never meant anything in Serpent World other than copping a smoke or ditching class. “Yeah, okay. Uh, didn’t you go to school in the Zone?”

“We were supposed to study on our own,” Archie admits. “Josie and Ronnie did. Betty tried to tutor me, but I guess it was just easier to blow it off. Now I have to try to catch up and – actually, can I look at that Quizlet?”

Jughead hands over his phone just as Mary Andrews marches into the scrubby waiting area. “Let’s go,” she announces. “I’m not going to fill you in on everything, Archie, and if you expected me to lasso a horse from a window to rescue Betty over my saddle, it’s my sad duty to inform you that’s just not going to happen.” Mary’s knuckles whiten on the handle of her briefcase, and she sweeps out of the station like a magnificent red and blue schooner.

#

“Betty’s going to a foster family,” Jughead tells FP. “In fact, she should be there now. I don’t know who they are or where they live, Dad. What if it’s another Sylvia Likens story about to happen? Can’t she crash here for a few weeks instead?”

“That girl has been through enough without your romanticized worries. She spent nearly three years in Nightmare Alley and survived, rescuing the entire Zone in the process.” FP lowers his voice to full drama level. “I think she’ll be okay.”

“Archie’s mom said the same thing.”

“Mary Andrews,” FP nods. “You should pay attention to her. She knows what she’s talking about.”

Jughead puts down his pencil on the kitchen table and regards his father. “When I went into the toy factory to find Betty, Mr. Hood played a ton of these old movies in his hiding place. They showed Betty and the other kids, but there were some about us as well. About you, and Mom, and me and Jellybean. How could he have … Dad?”

The beer bottle has dropped out of FP's hand as the color drains from his face. Ignoring the amber bubbles on the black and white tiles, FP shoves back his chair with a screech and stabs a forefinger in Jughead’s face. “It was faked. You know, with those CIA effects,” he declares.

“Do you mean CGI?” Disgusted, Jughead shoves his books to one side. “That would be incredibly expensive. And I could tell those movies were real, not fake. I know I’m not the president of the National Honors Society, but give me some credit for a little bit of smarts.”

“Boy, that's enough! I have to get out of here, get to the Wyrm.” With a vague gesture at the mess, FP opens his mouth again. Nothing comes out. Instead, he slouches across the tiny living room and slithers out of the trailer, not bothering to close the door after him.

“Damn it.” Jughead makes a face and goes for the mop, repeating his dad’s words in hideous falsetto. “’Your romanticized worries. It was faked with CIA.’ Gah!”

When he returns Betty sits in his kitchen, upright and demure as a choirgirl.

The mop falls from his hands with a clatter. Jughead bounds forward, falls on his knees, and wraps both arms around her waist. “Missed you so much,” he mumbles into her lap. “Missed you so much, Baby Girl.” He breathes in her scent, filtered now through harsh prison soap and industrial food, but she’s still there, the warm skin and lemon scent of her. “Can you stay?”

Betty strokes his curls and lightly scratches under the beanie, making lightning arc up Jughead’s spine. “I told the foster family I had to visit my boyfriend. After a long argument and twenty PSA’s about safe sex they said okay. And you need to mop the floor.”

He leans on one elbow, a sappy smile on his face. Boyfriend. They’ve just drifted together, two damaged little people clinging onto misty futures and a perilous present, but they’ve never actually talked about what they are… officially. Of course it’s Betty who’s brave enough to say the word, offering it like a creamy chocolate mouthful. “Stay,” he repeats, twisting her sweater around the tip of his index finger.

“I will, but I’m not going to have sex with you.” Betty’s gaze is very bright, very determined. “We need to talk about what happens next. Also, I’m really tired.”

“Yeah, of course.” Jughead considers. “I know this is going to seem really random, but did your house in the Zone have a window seat with a bookshelf underneath? And was there a copy of Jane Eyre on it?”

Her eyes widen. “Yes. I read it over and over again. How did you know?”

The mop handle slides down the wall and clonks onto the tiles, making them both start and reminding Jughead of his task. As he gets up, plants a quick kiss on Betty’s forehead, and turns to clean up FP’s mess, Jughead tries to frame his thoughts. “When we were in your house on your sofa that night, it just struck me that I knew the place. Memories came out of nowhere, of the room upstairs that I couldn’t even see, including the window seat. Then when we were in the factory, I saw those movies that Hood projected in his nightmare palace. They showed me and Jellybean in the Zone. And finally…”

“What is it?” Betty asks softly.

Jughead stabs at the floor with his mop. He’ll have to fetch a bucket with suds in a minute, but he wants to be honest with her first. “I dreamt about you when you were away.”

“In jail.”

“Yeah, okay, in jail. You told me I should find something. But then the dream changed, and I forgot exactly what you said.”

Betty gets up, finds a bucket under the sink, and begins to fill it with water. “Changed how?” she asks the faucet.

Abandoning the mop, Jughead goes behind her and spans her waist with both hands. “You became Grundy. We were kissing, and then you changed into her. It shocked me so much I woke up right here in the kitchen drooling on my homework.”

“Did you want it to be her?” Such a quiet little question, whispered into the bubbles.

Jughead hugs her from behind, hooking his chin over her shoulder. “No. A thousand times No. The biggest mistake I ever made was to leave you alone in the Zone and get into Grundy’s car. Everything fell apart after that.”

She relaxes in his arms and yawns hugely. “We’ll go over all of this later, I promise. Got a spare t-shirt? Yeah? Then take me to your bed.”

#

“What was it like in there, Baby Girl?”

Betty hums. “Loud. It was loud. The girl next to me kept screaming she was innocent and needed her lawyer. She shouted all day and all night, it seemed. Her name was Vonetta,” she adds.

Her skin is warm and fragrant against his mouth. “Couldn’t you ask for another cell? You know, file a complaint?”

Her legs twitch, hand flutters over his heart. “I did. They sent in a guard to visit her. I heard thumps, a loud crash. Vonetta was quiet after that, and I didn’t complain anymore.” Betty’s voice trails off, and she scratches her nose before flopping against him. “How about you? Did you work on your story for the Red and Black? Did Toni take more pictures? Have they found the missing money?”

“Oh.” Jughead kisses her forehead again. “Yes to the money, yes to the photographs, life’s been a bit too crazy for the book…” She’s not listening. Betty’s eyes are closed, and she emits a tiny, grunting snore.

Although it’s been a long day and one hell of a month, Jughead doesn’t fall asleep. Instead he gets comfortable and watches Betty’s face in the watery light. She breathes lightly: his complicated angel. He remembers the first time he saw her at Southside in a pastel sweater and flippy ponytail. Every kid in Southside thought she’d run to a private school by the end of the day.

Instead, she stayed and started a newspaper, solved the mystery of the missing high school funds, and saved everyone in the Zone.

And called him her boyfriend.

Talking about relationships has always made him itch. In high school and at the Wyrm he’s stiff-armed any female who tries to bring up ‘feelings’ or ‘future.’ He’s never bought a Valentine or picked daisies, never considered sparkly baubles just to put a smile on a pretty girl’s face.

But Betty sighs and hitches one leg over his hip as she nuzzles his neck. _A necklace,_ he decides. Maybe FP will give him some extra shifts. And Jughead instantly sees a vision of what he wants to give her: a silver chain with a birdcage. Its door would be open, and the canary would be poised to fly away from her prison.

“Would you like that?” he whispers to the sleeping girl in his arms. “Bet your eyes will get dreamy when you open the box, they way they do when we’re kissing. When’s your birthday? Hope I have enough time to get it for you by then.”

He’d have to hide it from her. On the brink of dreams, Jughead idly scans his room. There are the usual places, drawers and closets and such. But in a trailer park, personal belongings are open season to passing addicts and bored kids.

Maybe behind a wall panel. Or hidden in the toilet tank…

No.

Maybe under the floor.

Maybe in the ceiling.

Jughead’s eyes snap open. With a great deal of care and some Oofs, he slides out from under Betty’s sleepy weight and gets up. Holding his breath, Jughead pads out of the tiny bedroom to the kitchen.

He turns on the light and shades his eyes to look up. There he sees the same stains he’s known for so long they’re hardly visible any more.

The spots are next to the place where FP patched the ceiling. The spot bulges like an amateur’s bandage, a small square glued to the cheap roof tiles.

“Hello,” Jughead whispers to the messy patch. “What secrets are _you_ hiding?

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea from kingcoleandqueenlili on tumblr. Thank you so much for the prompt, bby!
> 
> "A Bughead story where Betty, the girl next door, transferred to Southside High and immediately catches the attention of everybody since her pastel sweaters and bright colored skirts aren’t fitting in. Serpent Heir Jughead Jones immediately feels the electricity in between them (and) is determined to make her his."
> 
> [Follow them](https://kingcoleandqueenlili.tumblr.com/) because they are wonderful, and [follow me](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mistressofmalplaquet) as well if you want to cry about beanies and ponytails.


End file.
